Ralli had instructed Lorace to stand perfectly still with the godstone sphere held out before him until the Forgemaster commanded him to do otherwise. He remained rooted to the spot while Thryk worked with the flask of powder. The stone and the air of the chamber reverberated with the singing of the dwarves. He fought the urge to sway along with the rhythm, by becoming the stillness within his tranquility.
From the circle, Thryk began drawing out more lines of powder, forming a radiating pattern with Lorace in the center. The song and the chant continued, and the rhythms of the two made the stone beneath his feet throb ever stronger.
Lorace watched Thryk’s slow progress with his sight as the dwarf continued to circle around and around him, drawing long continuous lines with powder from the clay flask. When the dwarf emptied one flask, he drew another from his belt, until the design was complete. The entire ornate pattern was comprised of curls and straight lines, radiating outward, connecting twelve concentric circles. It extended from his feet to within a stride of the Ritual Stone.
Thryk stood beside the stone and the song of the dwarves climbed to a thunderous volume, yet Thryk’s chanting rose above all. He drew his hammer and raised it above his head. The singing halted, its echoes fading off into the far reaches of the vaulted hall. With a final chanted word, Thryk swung the hammer down upon the outermost circle of powder, right where the final lines joined to complete the design.
The impact rocked him to the core of his being. The outer circle burst into intense blue light.
Chok!” the surrounding tiers of dwarves shouted—the dwarven command to proceed.
The blue light advanced along the spokes and curls of the pattern until it contacted and illuminated the next circle inward, at which point the hall of dwarven throats shouted out another word.
Lorace could not hear the word; he was lost to the progress of the blue tracery of light as it crawled toward him, from ring to ring. The anticipatory vibration coming from the stone beneath his bare feet, mounted in strength, and the godstone in his hand gained weight, pulling his arm downward. He exerted his will to hold the sphere motionless despite the weight, and he was sorely tempted to lift his other hand to help hold it up. When he saw Thryk nod at him, he did so, breaking from his motionless stance to cradle the godstone sphere with both hands.
When the glow advanced to the fourth circle from Lorace, its languid progress accelerated until the entire pattern was aglow. Thryk began a new song, deep within his chest. The blue glow pulsed to its undulating rhythm. Energy began flowing upwards through the bedrock into Lorace’s body, coursing into his tranquil core. It was warm and welcoming, not unlike the first touch of Halversome’s paving stones beneath his feet, only it too, pulsed to the rhythm of Thryk’s song.
The godstone sphere began to glow blue, dim at first, but brightening. It quickened in harmony to the song and the pulse of energy flowing into him. Thryk’s song ended when the brilliance of the godstone sphere was bathing the furthest recesses of the great hall in a pure white light.
The light consumed all shadow from the hall, but it did not hurt or blind his eyes. Thryk gestured for Lorace to bring the godstone forward and place it upon the Ritual Forge. Lorace stepped through the glowing design upon the floor, feeling only cold stone through the soles of his feet.
He reached the edge of the outermost circle and took one more step beyond, to stand before the Ritual Forge. The instant both feet left the design, the godstone burst into searing heat. Lorace screamed in agony as white fire ripped from the godstone into his hands, up his arms and engulfed his whole body. His eyes shut tight in pain, and he fell to his knees before the stone. Somehow, through the searing fire, he did not drop the godstone—he laid it down upon the Ritual Forge and snatched back his hands, clasping them to his chest.
Tornin must have leapt to his side, crossing the distance to him in a blur. Lorace continued to cry breathlessly as many throats in the hall bellowed in surprise.
He heard Tornin calling to him. “Lorace! Give me your hands!”
He extended his hands to Tornin and opened his eyes, but all he could see was the incandescent godstone sphere on the stone anvil as Thryk’s hammer began to pound squarely upon it, sending blue white sparks flying.
“Lorace, look,” Tornin implored, grasping and twisting his wrists to lift his palms up before his face. Lorace pulled his eyes away from the glowing sphere with an effort. His hands were whole and unharmed, but across the palm of each was the thick outline of a white circle, like a fully healed, seamless scar. Nowhere was there a trace of burned flesh, he was whole. Only a fading pain lingered upon his demon cut scars for a moment before his tranquility swallowed it.
Tornin let him go and withdrew, while a flickering nimbus of blue light danced up and down his tall frame.
Lorace returned his focus to the stone anvil, where, under the blows of Thryk’s hammer, the white-hot sphere was stretching, elongating into an egg-shape. The hammer’s strikes never varied. It was not the hammer that shaped the godstone, but some other force. If anything, Thryk’s hammer was simply releasing the godstone from its initial form.
The egg-shape stretched and narrowed, running like melting wax. Long ropes of glowing white metal fell over opposite sides of the anvil, coiling up on the floor while all trace of the original shape of the godstone sphere thinned out under the slow rhythm of hammer blows.
The metal began subdividing many times, pinching into hundreds of equal sections all along its coiled length. Each section opened up into an identically formed oval link, interlocked with its neighbors. Soon the white metal was a fully formed chain extending across the top of the anvil and spilling into coils on the floor to either side.
With a final blow, Thryk stilled his hammer and the white glow faded from the chain, revealing the dull silver luster of forged godstone.
Thryk stepped back and gestured for Lorace to pick up the chain. Lorace bowed to the Forgemaster, and extending his hands, he took hold of the godstone chain, now cool to the touch. He lifted it from the center of the stone anvil with an almost musical chiming of clinking links. He coiled the chain, forming loops draping from his left arm until he held its entirety. Each smooth and perfect link was slightly larger than the last joint of his thumb. There was a vibrant energy within the chain that struggled for equilibrium with his tranquility. He pulled the silvery length through his hands again, examining every link until its energy found harmony within him—an intimate meeting and union that sent a shiver through his being.
He held the chain up before him, presenting it to the silent audience. Everything within him blossomed open. His tranquility deepened and expanded, taking the entire vast chamber within its cool embrace.
As one, the dwarves called out, “Sakke Vrang!”
Chain of Vengeance they named it. Most of the dwarves began cheering thunderously, though some remained silent and reserved, questioning the purpose of the chain. He could sense the question within himself as well, but it was distant and silent, hidden wherever his uncertainty had fled.
His knees shook in a sudden spasm of exhaustion.
Thryk stepped forward and took Lorace by the arm to steady him. “Are you all right, Lorace?”
Lorace nodded, the burning pain that had made him scream was just a memory now.
Thryk shook his head warily. “I am sorry. I fear something may have gone wrong with the forging. I am not sure what Vorallon’s intent was. Everything followed his guidance.”
“No,” Lorace opened his hands from around the chain coil, showing the scar-like circles to the dwarf. “Your forging was perfect. These marks are a sign of Sakke Vrang’s destiny—my destiny. All is as it was meant to be.”
Thryk could only shake his head again at the sight of the marks.
Oen, Tornin, Wralka, and Yarkin came forward and he held the chain out to them, but they neither touched it nor commented upon its nature.
“What was it you felt?” Yarkin asked.
“When I st
epped beyond the circle, the godstone burned me, my whole body felt like it had erupted in flames,” Lorace described. “I would have sworn that my hands had incinerated to the bone. The pain faded quickly, though it lingered a short time longer upon my scars.”
“I saw a cloud of black flame erupt from your skin,” Oen said. “But if anything, your spirit shines even brighter now, it is stronger than before.”
Lorace felt inwards, examining himself, his feelings. All was tranquility and certainty. His rage and fear seemed to be only memories that belonged to another person, another life.
“I am changed, I can feel it,” he declared as his strained face relaxed into a smile. “I still remember my nightmares, but now it is as though they happened to someone else. I knew I was not at fault, but now I feel cleansed of the blood on my hands.”
Oen turned to Yarkin. “Is this normal for a godstone bearer after the forging is complete?”
“This forging is anything but normal,” Yarkin said, raising his gnarled hands toward the forge stone. “It does change a man, but never has it seemed to purify them as Lorace describes. Never has there been any experience of burning, and I have born witness to every godstone forging.”
“It was the godstone burning the corruption from my flesh,” Lorace pulled back the sleeve over one arm, but the scars were still present. “I am left with the scars, but the foulness in them is gone.”
“Perhaps what is gone now is the last trace of the demon that possessed you,” Tornin suggested.
“If there had been any of that demon within me, I do not think Oen would have allowed me into Halversome,” Lorace said to his young friend. “But Tezzirax’s dark acts left their mark upon me. The chain cleansed everything. Oen always saw my spirit as pure, but some of that demon’s foulness remained in my flesh, unseen.”
“Show your scars again, Lorace,” Oen asked.
Lorace opened his robe to the waist, exposing his extensive tracery of scars to the entire assemblage.
“They do not look as angry to me as they did before. Now they appear fully healed. They looked fresh to my eyes when I first saw them—barely healed.”
“You were seeing the taint of corruption in them, but to your eyes they just looked more recent,” Lorace said. “When I first saw them upon awakening on the beach, they appeared as fully healed to me as they do now.”
Oen nodded at this. “I understand now, forgive me for not realizing the full extent of the suffering you were enduring all this time.”
Lorace smiled at him. “There is nothing to forgive, Oen. You always made me feel better when I was inundated by fear, and now that fear is gone.”
He saw more questions, but not concerns, upon the faces of his friends. Life ran through the chain, and the gods had a plan for its use. He would be content to discover the uses of Sakke Vrang, just as he had found his own memories, and his own gifts.
Lorace wavered on his feet in fatigue as he contemplated the chain, and weariness showed in his weak smile.
“Come,” Ralli said. “The Ritual of the Forge has taken a lot out of you, you need to eat and rest again.”
Lorace lifted his head to the silent dwarves and bowed before he allowed Ralli to lead him from the chamber. Oen and Tornin walked at his side, while several dwarves, wearing the engraved leather aprons of master smiths, drew Thryk away to discuss the forging.
The dwarves they passed on their path back toward the traveler’s hall drew to either side of the broad passageways to honor him with bows and bent knees. They were also in awe of Tornin, touching fists to chests in salute to the tall young man.
When Tornin’s brows furrowed in confusion at this, Ralli explained their reaction. “They commend you for your bravery.”
“I did nothing but act to protect Lorace,” Tornin insisted. “I thought he was being burned in the fire of the godstone.”
“You did far more than that,” Ralli said. “When you joined the bearer at the Ritual Forge, clasping his hands in yours, you bound your destiny to that of Sakke Vrang as well.”
Tornin barked a laugh. “Oh, is that all? I am already sworn to Lorace.”
“Aye, but now you are intertwined to his chain’s destiny. Whatever it is the chain is fated to accomplish, you will play a vital role, your life may even be the cost, or worse.”
“So be it,” Tornin said with a nod. “But what could be worse than dying in the cause of serving the light?”
Ralli shook his head, declining to answer.
Oen laughed outright. “Ralli, this man could want for nothing more than to take place in a grand destiny. It has been his quest since he was old enough to dream. You throw dry tinder on a fire.”
Oen sobered sharply, rounding on Tornin. “There is one who may not be nearly as excited to hear this news.”
Tornin swallowed and his eyes widened. “Captain Falraan?”
“Yes, think carefully how you share this news with her,” Oen said with a heavy frown. “She has plans for you, young man. And her plans do not include you readily sacrificing yourself to dreams of glory.”
chapter 17
hall of heroes
Twenty-Sixth day of the Moon of the Thief
-in Vlaske K’Brak
Tornin hung his head, but he recovered when Ralli stopped them before the entrance to a long chamber. “Within this hall, the stories of the godstone champions are carved. Their stories are told to us by Vorallon himself, guiding the hand of the artisan.”
Ralli preceded them into the extensive hall and led them to the far back wall. The carvings were broad, white marble panels, running floor to ceiling. The sculptures were in such deep relief and immaculate detail that the figures came alive in all but motion and color. He stopped them before the first panel, the image of a strong, tall woman of gorgeous beauty holding a spear that was almost twice her height.
“Elena,” Tornin whispered as he reached out tentatively to touch her cheek. “She wields Kithke K’Brak, Spear of the Heart.”
“A weapon made to penetrate to the heart of the dragon Kamunki and slay him,” said Lorace looking upon the next panel, which showed the great beast in fine detail. The likeness of Elena, plunging her spear into his heart, was so small in comparison to the dragon that she could have walked upright down the throat of his gaping maw. He did not doubt that the scale of the carving was accurate—the dragon was over fifty man-heights in length. Not only could the dragon have flown, with its vast wings, it would have been able to bound over Halversome’s wall with the grace shown in its enormous, cat-like body. That one small woman—no matter how well armed—had been able to fell such a creature, rocked Lorace back on his heels.
“Kamunki pained Vorallon, the beast wielded a gift that harmed the world and left a great wound,” Ralli explained.
Oen’s bushy, white eyebrows shot up on his forehead. “He was gifted as well?”
“Aye. He shaped stone—tearing it up from the world with his will alone. This in itself did not harm Vorallon, but the corruption the dragon imbued his creations with was intolerable.”
Tornin seemed equally impressed by the deed of Elena and her spear, but he lingered over the panel depicting her full sized image longest of all.
“We may have to inform Captain Falraan that Tornin’s heart belongs to another,” Oen whispered to Lorace, who nodded and smiled.
The next panel showed a massive, broad shouldered man holding a great hammer over his head. He stood nearly Tornin’s height, a hands-breadth wider at the shoulder, and far deeper of chest.
“This was Kvarrak, he came to us a few years after Elena,” Ralli explained. “For him we forged the hammer, Chokke K’Rak, Beginning of the Storm.”
Lorace looked to the panel depicting Kvarrak’s deeds and saw him slaying an armored ogre, over twice the man’s prodigious size.
“That was Gnarwa, the ogre king,” Ralli explained. “He gathered ogres and trolls to his banner, far to the east of the Stormwall’s where they ranged in great numbers among a m
ountainous realm. Like Kamunki before him, he wielded corruption, a gift that called up foul storms of black lightning. It gave him incredible strength which he used to lead his army of giants into the lands of men.”
Ralli pointed to Kvarrak’s hammer. “Chokke K’Rak called the black lightning of Gnarwa’s storms into itself and unleashed them back into the ogre to destroy him. All other ogres and trolls that Chokke K’Rak struck died in a single blow, but when it sent Gnarwa’s corrupted lightning back into him, the might of the explosion destroyed Kvarrak along with the ogre king.”
Lorace examined the carving of Gnarwa’s destruction closely. From the front, it appeared that Gnarwa and Kvarrak, with his hammer, stood in a line. When he viewed the carving from the side, they appeared to merge into one being. “Is there significance to them overlaying each other in the sculpture?” he asked.
“The stone carver that crafted this image claimed that this was how Vorallon beheld Gnarwa and Kvarrak at the moment of their death,” Ralli said while running his fingers over the stonework. “Kvarrak was gifted as well. It is said he could walk through walls, making himself immaterial.”
Ralli advanced to the next set of stone panels, and performed a slight bow before the image of a mere boy that could not have been more that fourteen or fifteen years old. The boy bore a simple staff in his hands, a round bar that was as long as he was tall.
“This was Dranna, wielder of Tzat Fek,” Ralli said, extending one large hand toward the youthful image. His trembling fingers stopped just short of caressing the boy’s smooth cheek. “Broken Vision is the closest translation in your tongue, but its name might more properly be said as Blindness. Dranna’s tale is one of great sorrow.”
“Did he fail?” Tornin asked, tilting his head at the jumble of imagery upon the accompanying marble panels.
“He battled the wizard, Losqua,” Ralli informed them in a grim tone. “He stole magic from the spirit of Vorallon for the most foul of purposes—warping men into his own monstrous servants. Dranna did not fail. He put to death the abominations-”
Gifts of Vorallon: 01 - The Final Warden Page 17