Gifts of Vorallon: 01 - The Final Warden

by Thomas Cardin

  Oen showed Lorace the main hall of the temple directly beneath the high vault of the pyramid’s apex. In the center of the hall stood a three sided alter of polished white stone, each side bearing the upward pointing triangle which adorned the breast of all the guardsmen. He brought Lorace into a large common room beyond the worship hall and to a basin of warm water. Then he provided large sponges which were the first of such things Lorace had seen. “We gather them from the sea during the summer moons when the waters are warm enough to dive deeply. They are very good for bathing and scrubbing.”

  Lorace pulled his bloody nightshirt off and bathed himself with a wet sponge, forgetting for a moment about the scars upon his body. Oen was silent and staring, but he met Lorace’s eyes with a nod of acceptance.

  “Fifteen years ago, I first heard the word of Aran,” Oen said while Lorace washed the blood from his hair, staining the sponge red. “My brother and I had lost a battle to hold a bridge from a disputing nobleman’s forces. We were mercenaries at the time, you see, though we only hired on to leaders whose spirits showed honest and just. Between the two of our gifts there was no lying or cheating us, we always knew when we were fighting for the light. But that did not make us unbeatable, unfortunately, it often made us quite poor since those in the right did not always have the most gold.”

  Oen chuckled at this memory before continuing. “And this particular fight was both on the cheap and on the losing side. My brother, Lehan, took an arrow to the neck and I carried him off the field and hid us in a ditch. I thought he was dead, that I may not live to carry news to his wife and young daughter. I began to pray, but not just to the Warrior. I prayed to the trees, to the birds, to the wind, to anything that would hear me. Lord Aran heard me.”

  “He appeared to me, a vision in my prayer of a tall handsome man. He told me he heard my call and that he would aid me and my brother if I would let him. I asked him who he was, for my brother and I were ever wary of who we served and who we owed favor. He applauded my wisdom and told me he was Lord Aran, second of three who are tasked with restoring and maintaining the balance, ruler of Jaarda and Lord of Light.

  “I asked him what he wished of me, if he would heal my brother. He told me of Halversome. He wished me and my brother to come here and carry word of his existence to the last defenders of the light. When I agreed, he bade me remove the arrow from my brother’s neck and with a golden light he worked through my own hands to heal the wound. Then he made clean water rise in the ditch that bathed the muck from us and awakened my brother. When I linked hands with Lehan he entered Aran’s presence with me and together we swore to lay down our mercenary swords and serve him.”

  Lorace was tempted to ask where Lehan was, but chose to let that information come to him as it may. The man was not here now, and if he were dead, Lorace did not want to open any wounds that he could avoid among his new friends. He chose to pursue a different mystery that Oen had just spoken of, something that tingled at Lorace’s memory, however minutely.

  “Where is this Jaarda he rules?” Lorace inquired while squeezing out the sponge until it was clean of most of the redness.

  “Jaarda is home to those souls who live their lives on Vorallon with purity of spirit,” Oen said. “While in Jaarda those spirits receive strength from Lord Aran and the opportunity to be reborn with their light back to the living realm. Some spirits have made this journey many times; it is how some of us are strong enough to be among the gifted. Sadly, the same is also true for those souls who make many passages through Nefryt, the realm where souls with the corruption of darkness, fear, and hatred go.”

  “Do you remember these passages yourself?” Lorace asked with a smile. “I thought I was only missing the memories of this lifetime.”

  “No, no one is reborn with their memories of past lives. Memory is not tied to the spirit, it is something else entirely. Perhaps that is a question to ask the Traveler, when he awakens, he is the Old God many attribute to memory. My belief is that we are not reborn with our memories because of the trauma that could cause. Imagine being a babe in a strange mother’s arms, remembering the mother who bore you many lives ago. Of course that may also be why some babes cry without end. Forgetting may be the greatest kindness the Old Gods grant us in our rebirth.”

  Lorace took all this in with keen attentiveness while he had been drying himself off. Oen’s words made perfect sense, and he felt a great affinity for what such a babe must go through. With the returned memory of his parent’s death, a part of him felt it may have been best if that memory had remained forgotten.

  “What does Lord Aran look like?” Lorace asked as Oen handed him a white linen tunic to put on over his body, followed by a white priest robe.

  “Pray to him and see for yourself,” Oen said with a smile that dimpled and softened his heavy features. “He does not appear the same to all people, some have seen him as a young boy, others as a mature man, but there is a distinguishing feature that all visions of Aran share.”

  Lorace waited for Oen to describe this distinguishing feature, but the white haired priest remained silent. Lorace smiled at Oen’s subtlety; the priest was putting a challenge before him.

  “I do not see any statues of him here, is there a reason for that?”

  Oen gave him a measured look before answering his new line of questions. “It is his bidding that no representations of him should exist beyond his holy symbol, those who wish to see him need only close their eyes and call out his name in prayer. He is ever with us while the Old Gods sleep and, he tells us, he will be with us after they awaken as well.”

  “You all fight in his name?” Lorace asked. “All the guardsmen bear his symbol.”

  “We fight for the light. The guardsmen and others display his symbol as a sign of his guidance in life and love, not in war. Lord Aran has not yet taken paladins or warriors in his name, much to our friend Tornin’s dismay who has grown up hoping to be an oathsworn paladin of Aran.”

  Lorace nodded in understanding. “Between you and Captain Falraan, your people seem to have the guidance in war they need. The Zuxrans did not field a very large army; they were relying on the surprise of an unguarded entry. These walls must have halted greater threats than what stands beyond them today.”

  “In truth we have not known war here in Halversome, having remained unscathed by the ravages that have plagued the rest of the world,” Oen said with a wry smile. “The cliffs, the mountains, and the sea have sheltered us in peace. Indeed the gods chose the site of Halversome for its remoteness and natural defenses. This morning marks the conclusion of that peace.”

  When a priest came in bearing a basket of fresh baked honey bread and large bowl of stewed apples with raisins, Oen accepted it with sincere thanks and sat with Lorace at a long communal table to eat.

  “Are you a fighting man, Lorace?” Oen asked while pouring them a mug of fresh goats’ milk, deftly turning the questioning back toward the young man. “Is that why the gods have given you the burden you bear?”

  “I do not know,” Lorace said with a shake of his head. “I assume, because of the godstone I have been blessed with, that I must have had some form of training. The scars I bear may have come from countless contests of arms. Why else would the gods have made me their hero?”

  “I think you do yourself a disservice by making that assumption, there are more qualities than skill at arms which make a man a hero. I think you remain sorely troubled by the nightmare that woke you this morning, and your memory of your parents,” Oen said with a penetrating intuitiveness that startled Lorace. “I believe your destiny is the defense of these people in this time of darkness. Your arrival and that of the Zuxrans is the only recent evidence we have had that the rest of the world is still out there. I do not have to seek Aran’s guidance to know that there is meaning behind all this. We will just have to see what memories may come back to you on our journey to Vlaske K’Brak.”

  “You wish to accompany us?” Lorace asked with some surprise.
“While there is an enemy before your gate?”

  “It is your gate as well now,” Oen answered. “You have earned your place among us just by heeding the call that brought you here. That you have saved many lives as well, and bear godstone, makes you a champion among us, worthy of any escort. Captain Falraan will see to the defense of Halversome, my priests to the well-being of our people. I have a duty to perform as Guardian, to inform our allies of this attack for they must honor the Guardian’s Pact. As small as this force of Zuxrans is, they still far outnumber our able guardsmen.”

  “Your words are kind, but can you not just send word with Tornin and me?” Lorace urged.

  Oen chuckled, but the slow shake of his head proved that he would not be swayed. The Guardian of Halversome was made of a stone that even the walls could envy.

  “And miss the fabled Ritual of the Forge? When I have a perfectly good reason to be there? I have laid down my sword for Lord Aran, but I would see a new sword be raised for the cause of the light.”

  chapter 8

  defender of the youngest

  Twenty-Third day of the Moon of the Thief

  -in Halversome

  Before they had finished eating, Tornin was brought in, leaning heavily on two priests who supported him under each arm. His bloodied surcoat and chainmail had been removed and he now wore only a shift of linen cloth such as was given to Lorace, revealing his chiseled physique. His smile was weak but determined as they stood and helped him to a bench before the long table.

  “How are you feeling, my friend?” Lorace asked with genuine concern for the guardsman’s well-being. “I am amazed that you can even move so soon after Hurn’s attack.”

  “I am just weak, and hungry,” Tornin said as he reached for the basket of honey bread. “But glad to be alive as well. Lord Aran held me and bathed me in his waters, mending my bones and flesh.”

  “You will feel much better once you have fed that mountain you call a body, Son.” Oen told him with a stern smile. “I suspect your gift will do the rest. Even without the benefit of Lord Aran’s healing, young Tornin here has an amazing vitality that has helped him recover quickly from injury many times in the past.”

  “I will be well enough to travel today,” Tornin assured them both between mouthfuls of bread and apples.

  “You do not want to stay and fight the army of Zuxrans?” Oen asked with an expression of mock surprise.

  “Are you chucking me into the middens?” Tornin colorfully exclaimed in disbelief while rising to his feet unaided. “Where did they come from? Is that what Hurn was talking about?”

  Lorace nodded to him, amazed at his vitality. “He was opening the city to them, but we stopped him in time. They will have to turn and go home or contend themselves with a long wait upon the southern battlefield now.”

  “You were there weren’t you? I could swear that I heard you call out before I fell,” Tornin said while stepping around the table toward him.

  “Yes, I followed you, somehow I could see the danger you were in,” Lorace answered. “I slew Hurn with my gift and pulled you out to the street to call for help.”

  “You saved the city then, Lorace,” the guardsman said with his firm clasp of Lorace’s shoulder. “If you do nothing else, you have proven yourself the hero the Old Gods have sought.”

  “That he has,” said a woman’s strong voice from the chamber’s entryway, startling them. They turned to see Captain Falraan enter, bearing Hurn’s black sword in its sheath and a bundle of chainmail armor slung over one shoulder. “I came to check on our injured guardsman and this morning’s hero myself.”

  Tornin clasped his fist to his chest where the emblem of Aran would be if he were wearing his surcoat. Lorace noticed a reddening of both their cheeks as they shared a brief moment looking into one another’s eyes. He also noted Falraan’s lingering gaze upon the tall guardsman’s lithe form.

  Falraan broke her gaze away and laid the black sword and the armor on the table then turned to Oen. “The Zuxrans are setting up a camp upon the southern battlefield. They are raising supplies and gear from their galleys below the cliffs. Their intention is clearly to stay awhile longer.”

  “Let them,” Oen said with a shrug. “I leave for Vlaske K’Brak to return with the aid the Guardian’s Pact promises us. They will not breach our walls, and our northern fields are fallow for the winter, there is little harm they can do them.”

  “I have ordered the livestock brought in to the inner holding pens so they are safe from any pillaging as well,” Falraan confirmed for Guardian Oen who nodded in appreciation.

  She then turned back to Tornin and gestured toward the items she had deposited upon the table. “These are to replace what Hurn destroyed, a new coat of mail, and I name this your sword now.”

  She turned to Lorace with a slight bow. “We can arm you as well if you wish, Lorace.”

  Lorace thought of the godstone in his satchel and shook his head. “Thank you, my lady. I will be armed soon enough and until I have recovered my full memory I do not know what would suit me.”

  Tornin immediately lifted the chain coat on over his head, as one who felt only partially clothed without it, but he hesitated to take up the traitor’s sword.

  Oen read the hesitation and stepped forward with his hand raised. “Please, allow Lord Aran to bless this blade and remove all trace of Hurn’s treachery from it.”

  Tornin nodded his thanks and stood clear of the priest. Oen picked up the sheathed sword and walked into the main hall as they followed in his wake. The priests and worshipers in attendance stepped aside to watch him work.

  Oen halted before the nearest of the three flat sides of the altar, then bared the black sword from its sheath and knelt down with it held upright before him. For several moments he was motionless as he silently prayed. His back straightened and his chin lifted upward to address the unseen presence of Lord Aran.

  The entire hall brightened with a light like golden sunlight shining down from the apex of the pyramid. When he looked up through squinted eyes he witnessed the morning sun shining through the massive stone blocks of the tapering walls, a pure beam that flowed down into the blade Oen now held raised above his head. There were many gasps of amazement from all around the hall at this impossible manifestation. When runes of golden light emblazoned down the length of the broad black blade the gasps faded to an awed silence.

  Oen stood now while the runes dimmed to a faint glimmer. Of all the witnesses in the hall, none seemed more awed and lost in wonder than the high priest himself. He lowered the sword and ran a finger down the runes incised within the blade.

  “What does it say?” Tornin asked as he stepped up beside the priest.

  “It is in the divine writing of the gods,” Oen murmured as he shook from the energies that had passed through him. “It names this blade Defender of the Youngest. Tornin, I have never had a prayer answered in such a way before. Lord Aran was not alone in blessing this blade; there were two others with him. His brother, Lord Lorn stood beside him and from afar there was another; I believe she was the Lady of Destiny in her slumber. I cannot doubt that incredible events are unfolding before us.”

  Oen handed the blade hilt first to Tornin who took it reverently. At his touch it briefly flared into brightness equal to the sun. When his eyes cleared from the stunning light, Lorace found Oen standing before him. “Can you still doubt yourself? The gods, old and new are proclaiming their faith in you regardless, Lorace.”

  Tornin held the sword up, a long broad black blade with a hilt big enough to be held in two hands. He was filled with the power radiating from the sword. He knelt before Lorace and shocked him by swearing his life and sword to protect and defend him.

  “Before the eyes of gods and men I swear my sword in your service,” the guardsman proclaimed the knight’s oath. “I am your arm and your will. I uphold the law of your words. I let no man come to contest you who does not defeat me beforehand.”

  At these words, Lorace’s
memories opened up on a scene within another temple. It was the same hall where the serpentine demon struck down his parents only now there were six armored men and women and the dwarf, Taggi, kneeling before him, swords drawn, and they were swearing this very same oath. The child Lorace could not have been more than five years old. He stood before the knights wearing a hooded black robe trimmed in red, but he did not stand alone. Beside him were his two elder brothers, their names came to him easily now. Jorune was his next older brother and he wore a white and blue robe. Beyond him, his eldest brother, Bartalus, wore a robe of brown trimmed in gray. Their parents stood behind them, tall and proud. Lorace looked again upon his lovely mother, Fara, brunette and fine featured, and his father, Veladis, a towering, broad shouldered, brown-haired man smiling upon him alive and well. It was a happy time before his brothers were gone, before his parents and these very knights were destroyed.

  Silence reigned in the temple as Tornin concluded the oath and, head bowed, waited for Lorace’s answer. Oen noted the faraway look in Lorace’s gaze and gently laid a hand upon the man’s shoulder to rouse him back to the present. Lorace wept and sagged down to his knees. Part of him felt unworthy of this honor and wanted desperately to refuse the man’s oath, but it was in direct conflict with his own memories and a deep core of tranquility within him. He looked toward Tornin and remembered the later memory in the hall of his home, those very same knights lying dead on the floor, a last attempt for that hesitant and fearful part of him to rise up and take over, but his calmness and certainty won out, pushing the dreadful memory away.

  “Take up your sword in my service,” Lorace swore to Tornin in return as he held back his flood of emotion. “My word is your word. My life is your life. I accept you as my champion.”

  Lorace and Tornin rose together and clasped each other’s left forearm, sealing the oath. All the words and ritual repeated exactly from Lorace’s childhood memory. He could plainly see the expression of joy that washed over every ounce of his friend in pure exuberance.