When The Gods War_Book 2_Chronicles of Meldinar

by Samuel Stokes

  “You will not fight alone, Syrion,” a gruff voice added. Heads turned as Ferebour broke his traditionally quiet demeanor. “My people live in the Everpeak, a range of mountains that separates Andara and Khashish. If one of these Disciples expects to sway the Dwarves from the Allfather he will be poorly met indeed. You may reverence him but we worship him. We have since he carved us from the mountain. My people will not break our sacred oath. When battle lines are drawn you can rest assured that King Tharadin and the Dwarves will stand beside you.”

  “How can you be so certain?” Syrion replied.

  “Because I’m a Dwarf, Syrion. I know too well the price a Dwarf must pay for breaking his oath. I have been atoning for mine for longer than you have been alive.”

  “Things change, Ferebour—perhaps this Tharadin might have changed as well.”

  “Never, Syrion. He cannot be bought. There is no price great enough or sacrifice severe enough to deter him from the Allfather’s service. He is as immovable as the Everpeak.”

  “How can you know that for sure Ferebour . . . ?”

  “Because he’s my father.” The room was silent as the aging Dwarf cut Syrion off mid-sentence. “When I broke my oath he meted out judgment without hesitation. Sinner or son, it didn’t matter. I was cast out of the Everpeak. Tharadin Ironheart does not deviate from his oath. Not for family and not out of fear. Trust me.”

  The Throne Room was silent as the Council strove to understand the implications of what they had heard. Ferebour the mason—many of the Council had watched as he labored to build the catacombs beneath Belnair, at times directing others but most often with a hammer in one hand and a chisel in the other, carving out the stone tunnels by the sweat of his brow and the strength of his own arm. His work was not the kind of menial labor you would expect from a foreign prince.

  Turning to Tristan, Ferebour continued: “Highness, if it’s all the same to you, I wish to be excused. This morning’s meetings have made me weary.”

  Tristan looked at his friend. It was difficult to make out behind the beard and the Dwarf’s furrowed brow, but he could see it—pain. The memories of home had clearly caused Ferebour great distress. “By all means, Ferebour. Rest well—we appreciate all you have shared with us. Thank you.”

  The Dwarf arose from his chair, gave a brief bow and walked away. As he passed Syrion he stopped and removed a ring on his right hand. On its surface was the image of a hammer striking a steel heart. “It’s the insignia of the Ironheart clan,” Ferebour explained. “If you come across my father he will know you are a friend. It may aid you on your journey.”

  Syrion reached out a hand to receive the token. “My thanks, Ferebour. I will see it safely back to you. Is there a message I might give him for you?”

  Ferebour shook his head. “It has been so long—I wouldn’t know where to begin.” With that the Dwarf shuffled hastily out of the chamber.

  Once the Dwarf had departed Tristan continued: “So Khashish and the Dwarves against the might of Andara, along with anyone else the Disciples can muster to their cause. For that to occur, though, you will need to free Khashish from the Disciples’ grasp, Syrion. Can you do that without our aid?”

  “Honestly?” Syrion answered. “I don’t know. I have never seen one, nor their magic. Apart from the sorceress I faced here during the siege I have never battled another person who wields magic as a weapon. Malus has taught me much this past year and I have been studying all I can find in the royal archives, but whether I can do this on my own, I do not know.”

  “You won’t be alone, Syrion,” Elaina answered definitively. “I will travel with you. Tristan and the Council have everything in hand here. I would see these Disciples for myself. If by chance this Mythos they serve is who we fear he is, I will need to take word to the Celestial City—the Allfather must know that his enemy has returned. I cannot bear such a message without evidence. We must obtain that evidence, among other things.”

  “What other things?” Syrion asked.

  “This is not the place for that discussion, Syrion.” Elaina replied.

  “This is exactly the place for it, Mother.” Tristan replied. “I trust the Council with my life, there are no bureaucrats here, only friends. What else is in Sevalorn?”

  She gazed around at the Council members, then answered. “A portal, Tristan—it leads to the Soul Forge. Of all the lands on Meldinar it is the only portal I know of that leads to the Forge. If your father is to be restored to us, I must travel to the Forge. If we can gain favor with the Soul Smith, your father’s spirit which has been trapped in this forsaken stone might be released and returned to us.”

  “The Soul Smith can bring someone back from the dead?” Tristan asked.

  “No, but your father is not dead. Not in the truest sense of the word. When a person dies their spirit leaves their body and transcends to a higher plane. The Soul Forge is the gateway between realms. At the Soul Smith’s will a soul moves on to that plane or takes another turn at the wheel of life and is born again.

  Your father was wearing the Soul Stone when he died,” Elaina said, pointing to the stone that glowed angrily at her throat. “Instead of traveling to the Forge, his soul sank into this stone. At the Soul Smith’s will he can be returned to us, but for that to happen we must travel to the Forge and treat with the Smith. It is far from a certainty, but if there is any chance your father can be restored to us, I must take it. We’ve been apart too long already.”

  Sighing, Elaina continued. “So I will travel with Syrion to the portal. He will then head on to Khashish to deal with Kastor’s Disciple, and I will travel alone to the Soul Forge. The Smith is capricious and I do not want to delay. If I am successful your father and I will then travel south and meet up with you.”

  “What are we to do, then?” Tristan asked, gesturing to the Council seated around him. “Are we to sit here idly waiting while you risk your lives in foreign lands . . . or foreign worlds?”

  “No, Tristan,” she replied. “We need you actively engaged, rebuilding Valaar. These Disciples will just be the teeth. When Mythos rears his ugly head we will need every weapon, every man brought to bear to preserve our way of life. A few swords won’t make a difference in this. But a unified Valaar can raise an army that may tip the balance of the war we are yet to fight.”

  “You truly believe it will come to that?” Tristan asked.

  “I don’t know, but what I do know is that the last time the gods went to war they almost destroyed Empyrea. Who is to know what will happen next time. All I know is we must be ready.”

  “Then fetch Kastor,” Tristan replied. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter 17

  Kastor was ushered back into the chamber. As he approached the Throne he felt the many eyes of the Council fixed on him. What do they have in store for me? Kastor wondered as he approached the Throne. Masking his concern behind a façade of diplomatic confidence, Kastor addressed the King: “Your Majesty, your summons came much sooner than expected. May I presume you have seen the truth in the message I brought you this morning?”

  Instead of King Tristan, his brother Syrion replied: “Perhaps the time taken was all that was necessary to consider your crimes and reinstate the punishment you so fortuitously avoided a year ago.” The firm response punctured Kastor’s false bravado like a lance.

  As Kastor’s face fell Tristan began: “Syrion jests with you, Kastor. The Allfather spared your life in the sea—we may not know why but we will not frustrate his purposes by ending it now.” Kastor relaxed visibly as Tristan continued. “We have discussed the message you have brought. News of these Disciples trouble us—we think we know something of the being that they serve, and we do not wish to see him gain a following on our world. That said, our assistance comes with a price.”

  “Name it, Your Highness. If it is within my power—the Shah’s power—I will grant it. The Shah has indicated that he would grant any boon required to preserve our people’s freedom.”

 
“It is funny that you should use that word freedom,” Tristan replied. “For that is our first condition. We know that Khashish has built its wealth and grandeur on the backs of slaves, many of them taken from our land in raids, such as the one in which you tried to take my brother. Those raids are to cease immediately. We require the Shah to make this a law of your land. Any slavers caught plying their trade in our seas will be executed. Am I understood?”

  “That is a substantial request, Your Highness,” Kastor answered, “but I do not think it will be an issue.”

  “It is not a request, Kastor—it is a condition, and the lesser of two I will require at your hand.”

  “Pray tell, Sire, what is the second?”

  “The second is simple. I want my people back.”

  “People, Your Highness? I don’t understand. Who is it that you think we have?”

  “I want back every Valaaran citizen still wearing chains in Khashish. I want them released and returned to their homes here. Each and every one of them, young or old, male or female. I want them back. I want them and any family they may have added to themselves. If they wish to leave your realm, I will give them place here.”

  Kastor’s face fell. “Your highness, such a request. The numbers involved would be staggering. The cost to the Shah would be immense. I do not know . . .”

  “Enough, Kastor,” Tristan responded, cutting off the emissary mid-sentence. “As you have indicated, he is one of the wealthiest men in the world. I am sure it is within his power. These are my conditions. If the Shah wishes our aid, this is the price he must pay. One cannot be our ally in word only—you must be in deed as well. If you think it beyond what he might grant, you can return empty-handed and take your chance with the Disciples and their Master.”

  “The world is not as simple and idealistic as you would suppose, my young King,” Kastor replied. “But I will relay your terms. The Shah will receive them fairly. In my experience he will honor his obligations.”

  “Very well. I would have you write our terms in your own hand. Syrion will depart at once for the Shah’s Court, and a journey by ship might take a month or more, so he has insisted it will be quicker if he travels by other means. Syrion will bear your missive to the Shah and deal with your Disciple. You will be free to return to Khashish by ship at the morning tide.”

  “Very well, Your Majesty. I thank you for your gracious and understanding reception. May the Allfather smile on your Kingdom now as he has in the past.” Kastor bowed as deeply as his steel leg would allow and turned to depart.

  As he did so, Syrion spoke up. “Kastor, heed my brother’s warning well. For if you return to your former life, there is nowhere in this world you will be safe. I will find you, and I will finish what I started on your ship a year ago.”

  The emissary simply nodded and hurried out of the room as fast as his one good leg could carry him.

  *****

  A somber mood hung like a cloud over the courtyard. It was late, the sun had long since set and the daily affairs of King’s Court were at an end. Tristan watched as Syrion fussed over his bag. Content that he had packed as much as he could fit into the small satchel, Syrion arose and slung it over his back.

  Linea, Queen of Valaar, swept into the courtyard. Still attired in her robes of state, she made her way over to Syrion and handed him a rolled parchment. “Syrion, Kastor gave this to the chamberlain for you. It’s the letter of introduction to the Shah you asked for. I took the liberty of perusing it. It contains the terms we set out, along with a recommendation that the Shah consider them favorably.”

  “Thank you, Linea, are you sure you should be up at this hour? In your condition?” Syrion asked, a tone of worry evident in his voice.

  “I’m pregnant, Syrion—I’m not ill,” Linea responded gently. “I appreciate your concern but I’ll be fine.” She gently patted her growing belly. “And so will your niece or nephew.”

  “Nephew, I’m sure,” Syrion said.

  “How can you know such a thing?” Linea.

  “Magic.” Syrion responded with a smile.

  “No, it is not magic,” a voice added from behind as the Lady Elaina appeared in the courtyard. “He knows nothing, dear—he simply wishes for a nephew to play with. Son or daughter, we’ll be thrilled all the same. Pay him no heed.”

  “Magic!” huffed Linea as she gave Syrion a playful shove.

  “Gentle, dearest,” Tristan laughed as he reached for his wife’s hand. “He has a long journey ahead of him.”

  The small family embraced each other, concerned at the path that lay before them. “Travel safely,” Tristan implored as he broke the embrace. “How long will it take you to reach Sevalorn?”

  “Kastor seemed to think it would take a month by ship,” Syrion replied. “While I am unaccustomed to making such journeys, I imagine it will only take a few days—less if we have a favorable wind.”

  “We’ll have a favorable wind, all right,” Elaina declared. “I’ll see to that—don’t worry.” Before her exile Elaina had served as the Astarii guardian of Meldinar. Knowing little of the Astarii, the common folk of Meldinar entreated her as Eleen, mother of nature and mistress of the elements.

  Syrion smiled. “I guess we shall. Linea, look after Tristan. Last time he was without us he got in all manner of strife,” the young Astarii jested. “I trust that I won’t need to save him from the executioner’s blade a second time.”

  “Indeed you will not,” Tristan laughed.

  “In all seriousness, brother, take care,” Syrion pressed. “While we have rooted out many of the old enemies that plagued Valaar, many still elude us. We have sought in vain for the murderous heir to the Mizumura, but she cannot be found. Some of her supporters must be aiding her.”

  “I know, Syrion. Fear not—I am not alone here. I will be careful.” The brothers embraced once more. “Bring Father back to us—I miss him dearly.”

  “I will, Tristan,” their mother replied. “I miss him more than you will ever know. In this, failure is not an outcome I can accept.” Tears welled up in Elaina’s eyes as she thought of her love, so long kept from her. The Lady Elaina threw her arms around both her sons and hugged them tightly. Pressing her lips to Tristan’s forehead, she gave him a kiss goodbye.

  As they broke the embrace Syrion walked into the center of the courtyard, distancing himself from the others.

  “Careful with the stonework, Syrion,” Tristan cautioned. “The masons have only just finished cleaning up after your last mess. Any more of that and Ferebour will have words with you.”

  Syrion smiled. “I’ll do what I can.” With a thought Syrion reached deep within, searching until he found it—a primal power within that emanated from his Astarii nature. Drawing it forth, Syrion felt it flow throughout his entire being. A bright light flooded the courtyard, turning night into day as it radiated forth from the young Astarii. The others hastened to shield their eyes from the blinding light.

  When the light faded the young mage had vanished. In his place an immense golden Dragon filled the courtyard. The mighty creature stretched its wings and then lowered itself to the cobblestones.

  “That’s my cue,” Elaina laughed as she moved to the creature’s side. Taking hold of the scaled ridges that made up the Dragon’s hide, she clambered onto its back. She climbed high onto the Dragon’s back and settled herself where the creature’s neck met its body and took hold of a pair of plates on its neck. “Ready when you are, Son,” Elaina said, patting the creature’s neck.

  With startling speed the great gold Dragon sprang up, leaping skyward as it stretched its mighty wings. Syrion cleared the courtyard and propelled himself skyward with each steady beat of his wings. As the Palace disappeared below, Elaina called out: “Are you ready?”

  Syrion bellowed a low, guttural roar in response.

  Embracing her power, Elaina focused her thoughts on the sky around her, and in seconds she summoned a strong tailwind that caught the Dragon’s wings and propelled him forwar
d at an even greater speed. Soon the island of Valaar was shrinking into the distance as the two made their way swiftly through the night sky.

  Chapter 18

  The sun was slowly rising as the Andaran contingent led by the Empress moved steadily north toward the Kairon. Spirits were high in spite of the early start to the journey. The heaven-sent rain promised a prosperous harvest in the months to come and the people of Andara relished the thought of plenteous food. The steady rainfall had raised the level of the Elkhan and it now flowed swiftly in spite of Vitaem’s continued interference.

  War fervor swept the land as the Disciples’ rhetoric whipped the people into a frenzy. The peasant folk had suffered much during the drought and the Disciples were quick to inform them who were to blame for their suffering. Vitriol against Vitaem and Andara’s other neighbors fueled the people’s hate and gave them a singularity of purpose.

  The young Empress was already popular for her efforts to redistribute food among the subjects, but the Disciples’ preaching had made her an idol to her people. Under her short reign they had moved from a state of poverty and starvation to a life of abundance and opportunity.

  The boons granted by the Disciples fueled her meteoric rise in popularity. As Andara galvanized its forces in preparation for war the people fell in behind their Empress. Andara’s already large military was swollen by the ranks of zealots eager to follow the Disciples to war.

  At Jonas’s direction the Empress had gathered the contingent and set out for the Plains of the Kairon. The Empress traveled with soldiers and hundreds of support staff as the caravan worked its way north through Andara to the banks of the Elkhan. The convoy traveled with two of the Disciples: Jonas, who was never far from the Empress’s side, and Alsarius, the only Disciple to remain in Andara while the remaining Disciples ventured out into neighboring lands.