by S. C. Stokes
As the night wore on Sven struggled to keep his eyes focused on the swaying shape before him, his fatigue distorting the image of the hanging body.
He almost missed the black silhouette that approached. One moment the road had been clear—the next a black shape stood looking up at the hanging Night Stalker above.
The silhouette seemed to turn, searching the darkness for any hint of a trap. Then he swiftly drew a blade and severed the rope holding the Night Stalker’s corpse aloft. With a heavy thud the body struck the road and the silhouette snatched the message off the corpse and took off as swiftly as he had appeared.
Sven carefully extricated himself from his hiding place and followed the shadow as it made its way through the trees. It was not easy to follow the figure through the woods. Too close and he risked being heard; too far away and he risked losing the stealthy figure entirely.
For what seemed like an eternity Sven shadowed the man through the woods until his quarry stopped. Sven pressed himself flat against a tree to ensure he could not be seen. As the sun readied to rise, the pre-dawn light threatened to reveal his position.
Sven waited a moment before risking another glimpse. To his surprise the figure had pulled off and discarded his black robe. The man’s handsome features were now clearly visible as he straightened the outfit he had been wearing beneath his Night Stalker garb. In moments the man had transformed himself from murderer to merchant. The choice made sense. As a Night Stalker he might have intimidated any who crossed paths with him in the darkness and kept safe that way, but the assassin’s uniform made a poor choice for traveling during the day. He would stand out like a beggar at a banquet.
Without bothering to collect the discarded robe the man set off into the woods once more. Following him was easier now that the sun was peeking over the horizon. At the edge of the woods the man casually strode into the sunshine. As Sven reached the same spot he caught a brief glimpse of his quarry just as he disappeared into a throng of people making their way along the road.
Sven shook his head as he realized where he was. The assassin had meandered about the forest for hours to ensure he was not followed, but all the while he was just passing time until the sun rose and he could disappear back into the traffic now making its way along the highway as King’s Court came to life behind them.
Sven ran for the road, his need for stealth now eclipsed by his desire to not lose his quarry in the crowd. Making his way through the travelers, Sven spotted the merchant up ahead, giving thanks he had seen the Night Stalker shed his disguise.
Sven slowed his pace with a sigh of relief and continued to observe the merchant from a safe distance carrying on his covert pursuit all day, his weary feet doing their best to keep up with the merchant who seemed never to fatigue.
The King’s Highway reached a fork, one branch turning west, leading to the Mizumura, the other continuing north to Fordham. With great satisfaction Sven watched as the merchant turned west. It appears Tristan was right about the murderess, Sven thought to himself. He murmured a promise: “Hold tight, young Prince—we’re coming.”
Chapter 11
The Plains of the Kairon
At Syrion’s insistence the party had traveled north, crossing the Elkhan to make their way along its northern bank. The journey was particularly tedious for Syrion, who expressed his displeasure repeatedly. “By the gods, could this creature bounce anymore? My behind feels like one giant bruise, and a bruise that is being kicked by a mule with every step.” Marcus chuckled and the sound brought a smile to Elaina’s face. A little bit of discomfort will do him good, she thought. A dose of humility would help to slow his pride in his rising power.
Since coming of age as an Astarii and learning of the true power that lay within him, Syrion had little cause to walk, let alone endure the pains of riding a horse. Horses simply did not exist in Tolanis, where he had been raised, a fact he was surely appreciating more with each passing mile.
Each Astarii youth bore a birthmark that was both their birthright and a legacy of their people. The Astarii were created by the Allfather to watch over his followers and protect his domain, known to his followers as Creation, that spanned the heavens and included numerous worlds. As the chosen servants of the Allfather, the Astarii had been imbued with tremendous power that manifested differently in each child born into their blessed lineage.
When Elaina had met Marcus she had defied the traditions of the Astarii by interfering in the events of those she was called to protect. Elaina had resisted the edicts of the Five, the council that governed the affairs of the Astarii, and was exiled for her actions. Though a lord among men, in the eyes of the Astarii Marcus was still a man.
The Astarii had banished Elaina without thought for what might become of her or the children she might one day bear. This oversight was not unusual, as no Astarii had ever joined to a mortal, so there was no precedent for such children, no one even knowing whether children were possible in such a union. Elaina had reason to believe her children would come—a prophecy spoken by the Allfather himself had given her the faith to press on. In time the prophecy had come to pass and brought with it her sons.
Tristan and Syrion—the sons of Elaina. Tristan followed after his father, but Syrion had inherited his mother’s Astarii heritage. As Marcus held his newborn son, he watched a large golden dragon appear on the child’s back. The golden creature moved slowly across the child’s flesh. Elaina recognized the birthright at once—an Astarii bearing the mark of the dragon had not been born in a thousand years. Exiled or not, it seemed the Allfather had plans for Elaina and her family yet.
As Syrion had matured his gift for the arcane had manifested. Elaina taught her son as best she could, but it soon became apparent what immense power was contained within her young son, a power that revealed itself with a vengeance the day he was set upon by slavers meaning to deprive him of his freedom. With the power of the Astarii exploding from within, Syrion had taken the form of his birthright. As a terrifying golden dragon he had burst free of his captivity and laid waste to the ignorant slavers.
In time he had honed his abilities and could now take his draconic form at will. Now he had little need to walk, and if he found himself making a journey of any consequence his inclination was to shape shift and enjoy the glorious gift of flight his dragon wings afforded. Syrion had been less than impressed when Elaina insisted they ride to investigate the Glaciadal. “There is no way they will fail to notice a dragon soaring overhead!” Elaina had declared, clearly and unequivocally. “We ride so that we can observe them, without confronting them. We know little of them and cannot risk being discovered.”
On the second day they had stumbled into a small band of Kairon who were heading south. Elaina and Syrion had readied themselves to engage the beasts, only to have the Kairon ignore them completely. The four-footed beasts were fleeing south as fast as their muscular frames could carry them. From the little Syrion had learned of the creatures, such behavior was unusual in the extreme. Highly territorial, the Kairon could be expected to take umbrage with anyone foolish enough to trespass on their lands.
These particular creatures had other thoughts, though, clearly more concerned with moving south than with the potential feast the three travelers presented. This was disconcerting in the extreme. Fear was not an emotion the Kairon acknowledged openly. Whatever the Kairon were fleeing from, had left an impression so deep the beasts were willing to lose face to escape it.
Elaina had little doubt that the cause of the Kairon’s fear was the Glaciadal who had mysteriously appeared. As the party moved west they spotted the first sign of the newcomers. At this distance the spectacle resembled a sliver or shard rising out of the plains. All day the group traveled onwards, the spire slowly growing larger and larger before their eyes.
As the sun sank into the west, Marcus turned to Elaina and Syrion. “We are still hours away and there is little point fumbling around in the dark. Let’s make camp here.”
“We
should press on, Father,” Syrion countered. “Darkness will provide us with the cover we need to get closer to them.”
“—or to be captured, Syrion. You have no idea what they are capable of. The Kairon fear them, and even with no other reason, that fact alone should give you pause.”
“The Kairon fear any who possess magic.” Syrion countered. “It is how the disciples kept them in check and compelled them to do their bidding.”
“You must think before you act, Son,” Elaina added. “How many times have I told you? This is how you get yourself into trouble.”
“I am not a child, Mother—please don’t treat me like one. Twice now I’ve proved myself in battle, both at King’s Court and at the Everpeak.”
“You certainly have, my son, but please don’t mistake wisdom for experience. For an Astarii you are still young.”
“What’s the difference?” Syrion replied, starting to get frustrated.
“Wisdom is knowledge, rightly applied,” answered his father. “You have seen and learned a great deal, Syrion, I know that. But until you start using that experience in your decision making, it will not become wisdom.”
“Fine, Father—Mother—have it your way,” Syrion replied as he swung down out of the saddle. “We will rest and press on in the morning.”
Elaina and Marcus followed suit, not sure whether their son’s capitulation was genuine or whether he was simply eager to be off his horse. In any event it would have to do. Marcus picketed the horses while Elaina and Syrion set about making a simple camp. The family enjoyed a meal from the dried supplies the empress had provided. Not wishing to draw any unwanted attention, the party went without the comfort of a fire and settled down onto their sleeping rolls for the night.
“It’s a shame about the clouds,” Marcus ventured. “This far from the city the stars would be a sight to behold.”
“Indeed they would be,” Elaina replied. “Perhaps I can do something about that.” She closed her eyes and reached a hand up into the sky. Sweeping her hand before her as one might clean a pane of window glass, she gave a silent command. She could feel the subtle flow of energy as it coursed through her being. At her command a northeasterly breeze stirred and swept the clouds before it.
Driven by the gentle breeze, the clouds wafted to the southwest towards Vitaem and Cidea. As the clouds dispersed a breathtaking panorama of stars appeared before them in the night sky.
“I always loved it when you did that,” Marcus said softly, clutching Elaina’s hand as he stared heavenward.
“And it was worth it every time, just to see you smile.” Elaina replied contentedly.
“So you don’t want to draw any attention, Mother, but you are happy to bend the night sky to your will?” Syrion chided. “It’s not exactly subtle, you know.”
“Go to sleep, Syrion.” Elaina responded. “You sorely need it to be rid of that pouting disposition.”
“Gar . . .” Syrion mumbled, unable to best his mother’s seemingly endless retorts. He rolled onto his side and went to sleep.
“Goodnight to you, too,” Elaina answered with a broad grin as she relaxed and allowed the fatigue of the day to wash out of her.
Chapter 12
Aielniur was thrilled. For too long the Glaciadal had hidden themselves in frozen wastelands. Their crude structures were half-buried in the snowy landscape, in part to prevent the icy winds from tearing through them, but also to ensure anyone scrying the lands from above would have little to see. With the Glaciadal’s illusions layered atop the concealed structures it would have been a surprising misfortune for someone to happen upon their hiding place.
Now the need for such subtlety was gone. No longer would the Adal, chosen of Apollos, hide in fear. With Apollos free it was time to rebuild the legacy of the Adal. When Apollos comes for us he will find our banners raised high—he will know our loyalty has been unflinching, Aielniur told himself.
Now the spellweavers labored tirelessly to build their new city, Caelorian, “for the glory of the first” in the ancient tongue. The city’s purpose was to stand as an enduring witness that the Glaciadal would not bow down before lesser gods. In their eyes there was only Apollos, and upon his return to power his capricious and unfaithful sons would be overthrown, along with those who had supported them in their foolish gambit.
Fashioned after the Astral Palace on Empyrea, Caelorian was shaped from the earth itself by the arcane arts of the spellweavers. Once each structure reached its desired shape the spellweavers would use their arts to compress the thick earthen layers under immense pressure.
Following the same process that would form diamonds and precious jewels, the Glaciadal turned the earth itself into an almost translucent glass. At Grindelmere’s instruction Caelorian was formed in the same blue and purple hues as the Astral Palace. In nature the transformation would take immense pressure or time and would not appear perhaps for millennia. Under the mystic ministrations of Aielniur and the Spellweavers, it took only hours to complete a simple structure visible to all.
Aielniur could not help but admire his work with pride. Even a simple home looked beautiful when formed from the crystalline substance. The structure before him was magnificent, a majestic gatehouse that would form the entryway into Caelorian. The glittering structure rose high into the air, taller than ten Glaciadal standing upon each other’s shoulders. The gatehouse rested between two towers, each finished with a battlement that would protect dozens of Glaciadal as they rained fire upon their enemies below. Atop each battlement stood a narrow crystalline spike that stretched toward the stars above.
The entire structure was finished in a rich purple hue. In the center of the gatehouse, directly above the gate, was the symbol of Apollos in gold, a brilliant contrast to the gates. The symbol itself was the first letter of the ancient alphabet. Two lines rising to meet at a single point. It resembled the letter “V” from the common tongue, but turned upside down. For the Adal it was a badge of honor that was to be displayed with pride.
Aielniur reveled in the beauty before him. The gift of magic was truly something divine. With a word or thought he could wreak destruction few beings could comprehend, let alone prevent, but it was this use of magic that he most enjoyed. Creation, the act of forming something beautiful and elegant with his own labor. Nothing else truly compared to it. I have waited so long to enjoy this gift, the spellweaver thought as he readied himself to begin raising the walls that would stand beside the gate before him.
The spellweaver began to chant. Each word uttered in the ancient tongue was precise and carefully chosen. Aielniur was one of the few Adal to survive the purge following the fall and supposed death of Apollos, and as one who had stood in the presence of Apollos and heard the words from his very mouth, Aielniur had perfect elocution.
The earth beneath him responded to his command, the ground before him bubbling as its elements boiled together. As the arcane energy flowed from the Spellweaver, soil, silt and stone were reduced to their base elements. The substance pooled before him and Aielniur began to raise his arms to the sky. The brown liquid responded unnaturally, rising toward the stars and forming into thick sheets. Once it reached the desired height Aielniur would cease chanting and the liquefied earth would set, allowing the Spellweaver to move on to the next stretch of wall. Once the walls were formed and met Grindelmere’s design, Aielniur would, with the other spellweavers, apply the pressure necessary to transform the set wall-sheets into their crystalline state.
Content that each sheet was adequately set, Aielniur walked along the wall inspecting his handiwork. He scrutinized his handiwork, unwilling to allow any inconsistency to escape his notice and result in a defect in the finished design. Caelorian will be the glory of the heavens, Aielniur told himself. Suddenly as he strode along the wall a shape caught his eye. Even in the darkness his keen eyesight told him a man stood there watching him. But the plains surrounding Caelorian had been cleared to ensure that none could approach the city unobserved.
<
br /> Seeing he had been detected, the figure approached. As it drew nearer it became apparent the observer was not of the Glaciadal, but shorter and stockier than Aielniur would have expected of one of his own people. Rather, the dark figure moved with a clumsy gait that could mean only one thing: Human. Aielniur twisted his mouth in contempt.
Humans were the scourge of the stars. Everywhere they were found they reproduced without thought or concern for the land they inhabited. Their populations swelled to plague proportions only to have their civilizations fracture and waste lives in pointless bloodshed. In the eyes of the Adal they were little better than the cattle they raised for food. If it weren’t for the intervention of Apollos, the Adal would happily have seen to their extinction.
“One cannot rule if there is no one left to rule over,” Apollos had declared, and so the Humans had remained. The veritable vermin of the stars, their survival was decreed by the one being who had the power to stay the hand of the Adal.
“Be gone, Human! You trespass on the land of the Adal,” Aielniur called in warning as the figure approached.
“Easy, friend,” the figure replied, holding both hands up to show he was unarmed. From the tone of voice Aielniur determined it was a young man.
“I am no friend to your kind. Now depart! I will not warn you again.”
The man paid the warning no heed and continued to advance. “That was a fascinating feat of magic with the wall. Do your people always build in such a manner? It’s breathtaking to watch.” Now only twenty paces from Aielniur, he continued: “And the gatehouse, simply majestic. Will the walls also be finished in the same manner?”
Aielniur could see him more clearly now. The Human before him looked little over twenty years of age. He was little more than a child, and in the eyes of the ageless Adal he was positively infantile. Aielniur’s heart softened. Ignoring the youth’s question, the spellweaver replied sharply in the common tongue: “Listen to me, child. This ground, this city, Caelorian—it is sacred to the Adal. You and your curiosity have no place here. Depart now and you may do so in peace. If you do not, I will remove you.”