Books by John Triptych
Wrath of the Old Gods series (in chronological order)
The Glooming
Pagan Apocalypse
Canticum Tenebris
The Fomorians
A World Darkly
Eye of Balor
Mortuorum Luctum
Expatriate Underworld series
The Opener
The Loader
Dying World series
Lands of Dust
City of Delusions
The Maker of Entropy
Ace of Space series
The Piranha Solution
Virago One
The Maker of Entropy
The Dying World Book 3
By John Triptych
Copyright© 2017 by John Triptych
All rights reserved.
J Triptych Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, and/or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover by Deranged Doctor Design (http://www.derangeddoctordesign.com/)
Interior formatting by Polgarus Studios
For Edgar Rice Burroughs, Jack Vance, and James M Ward
Author’s note:
Dear reader, I would like to thank you for purchasing this book. As a self-published author, I incur all the costs of producing this novel so your feedback means a lot to me. If you wouldn’t mind, could you please take a few minutes and post a review of this online and let others know what you think of it?
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Table of Contents
Books by John Triptych
Author’s note:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Also by J Triptych Publishing
When they are born, they wish to live and to meet with their dooms - or rather to rest - and they leave children behind them to meet with dooms in turn.
- Heraclitus
Time is the wisest of all things that are; for it brings everything to light.
-Thales
Chapter 1
By the time the pilgrimage reached the steps of the bluff, wisps of silvery white smoke started to emanate from the nearby fissures along its sides. Everyone called it the Mountain of Entropy, for therein dwelled the Maker and his chosen servants, the Exalted. Being the highest amongst the many peaks in the Sea of Dunes, it was the final elevation before the terrain flattened itself out into the Frozen Desert- an endless, northern expanse of nothingness. Unlike the parched, arid lands to the south, the howling winds carried a chilly air across the wastelands, forcing those living within these areas to wear furred cloaks, with more robust tunics and boots for additional warmth. It was said the tribes of the dunes were of a different sort of humanity, for their way of life was completely different when compared to anyone else in the world. Even their gods were wholly distinct, as were their rituals and traditions.
Fumal Led wrapped his cloak a little tighter around his shoulders before turning around and staring at the desperate faces of the group following behind. He could see half of them were trembling with both fright and anticipation. When he finally revealed the plan to the lot last eventide, he had expected a number of them to protest and flee, and was quite surprised they had glumly accepted his scheme, despite its risks. Fumal Led told the group to leave their weapons behind, for it was forbidden for any pilgrim bringing arms into temple within the hollows of the mountain. If they had attempted to fight their way at the entrance, he surmised the Exalted would have sounded the alarm and called for additional reinforcements, overwhelming their small band before they could even get into the inner temple that housed the Oracle. Fumal Led had told them to trust in him, for he would use his gift of the mindforce to find weapons for them once they got through the outer ring of fortifications.
The moment they reached the lower steps and began their ascent, a group of Exalted came out of a nearby stone dwelling and approached them, their hooded, crimson-colored robes signifying their status as guardians for the Temple. Each of the Exalted wore bronze masks that hid their true faces, showing instead a grim, demonic visage clearly intended to intimidate anyone who was not of their kind. There must have been at least fifty of them, and they quickly surrounded Fumal Led’s group of twenty, their spears were held high, and ready to be brought into play at the slightest provocation.
Their leader stepped forward. Fumal Led made a slight bow, pulling out a telling stone made of jade obsidian from the folds of his cloak, and presented it to him. The guard commander took a look at the glyphs on the flat rock before handing it back. Then the sentry gestured silently with his hands.
Fumal Led let the cloak fall off from his shoulders, revealing his simple tunic, leather pants, and well worn boots. He turned to his companions. “Drop your cloaks.”
The others in his party did as they were told, revealing the majority of them were young men and women who had recently come of age. Many of the youths had barely begun to grow fur on their backs, while quite of a few of the females were still flat-chested. Most of their meager clothing was in tatters, since tradition had stated they would not need them for the next phase of their journey.
The guard commander pointed at the three older men who accompanied the youths, their hirsute bodies thick with fur. “Why have you brought forth these others? The Maker demands only the young, and you were chosen to be the singular herald of this duty.”
“Forgive me,” Fumal Led said. “But the tribe could only spare these few youths for there were no others. These men have elected to serve as replacements for the ritual.”
The commander looked away, his bronze mask with its eerie, monotonous sounding voice betraying no emotion. “This is an unnatural occurrence. You were told to bring at least two dozen youths.”
Fumal Led bowed a second time. “Again, my apologies. The surrounding tribal enclaves have been stripped of their youthful members. The remaining ones you see here are all that could be gathered. Let me take this group to the Oracle. Any quandary befalling the ritual shall be my responsibility, and mine alone.”
Another of the Exalted walked over to the commander and both began whispering to each other. After a few minutes, the
leader turned to look at Fumal Led once more. “Very well, your group may draw up your cloaks and ascend the sacred path. The Oracle shall be the one to decide your fate.”
The steps had been carved along the face of the tall mountain, and the group ascended slowly as the biting air seemed to get colder with every step. The opening was a massive cavern entrance; a gigantic hole along the side of the peak, its colossal maw seemed to beckon at them, like bits of meat being led down its throat. The going was slow, and it was already gloaming by the time they made it to the final landing, there to be greeted by a group of six curates, who gestured at the group to accompany them into the hollow.
It was their first time ever to venture into the sacred caverns, and most had been awed by the sight. The massive ceiling of the entire place was lost up in the darkness, with only long, age-old stalactites hanging down at them, signifying the presence of an enclosed roof above. Strange, floating balls of glowing light seemed to drift overhead, providing a neon-like illumination, in addition to the glowing torches embedded in their wall sconces along strategic intervals.
The six curates led the way, followed closely by Fumal Led and his nineteen companions. Since it was clear no one in the group was armed, the curates relaxed their vigilance, and they absent-mindedly clumped together in front without bothering to position any of their colleagues in either the sides or to follow up at the rear. The moment the entire group passed through the double doors of the main hall, Fumal Led knew this would be the right time to enact his scheme.
He had noticed the Head Curate carrying a cross-hilted arming sword with a spiked pommel along his waistline. The others were similarly armed, but none of them was on guard for any trouble. Fumal Led began to gather his Vis, the invisible mental energy that made the power of the mindforce possible. Vis was but a finite resource, for one gifted with its ability needed to concentrate his or her thoughts in order to use it, and it would be spent the moment their powers were invoked. Additional Vis could be regained by meditation or rest, so making proper use of it was a skill one had to master.
Just as he prepared to strike, memories of his past life flashed before his eyes. Fumal Led was once a favored commander within the Magi Order, but the malevolence of the old Grand Magus Jetan had steadily driven him to rebel, and he entered into voluntary exile once the boy he had been entrusted with was in safe hands. He was a master duelist, and he taught the sons of the Grand Magus everything he knew, before he realized his training was to be used for a more insidious purpose, to prolong Jetan’s rule over the Order. When the command to slaughter the gifted children was announced, he took Jetan’s youngest son with him and fled from the brotherhood, raising the boy in the slums of Lethe until he grew into a capable youth. With the price on his head growing ever larger, Fumal Led knew his time had come, and he wandered out into the wastelands, never to return to that accursed city.
Pushing the thoughts of the past into the back of his mind, Fumal Led gestured with his right hand, just as the curates up ahead of him stood in front of a stone altar while preparing for the ritual. The head curate took a step back in shock, as his sword was suddenly drawn out of its scabbard by some invisible force. The blade flew backwards in the air until it came upon Fumal Led’s hand, and the exiled Magus grasped it along its hilt, swinging it a few times in the air as he tested its weight and balance while moving into range.
The other curates turned in their direction. Fumal Led could see they were unarmored, and he thrust the point of the blade into the lower chest of the curate closest to him before quickly withdrawing it. The man fell to his knees, his hands desperately trying to hold his innards back as he fell bleeding to his side. A second curate tried to draw his short sword, but Fumal Led’s strike tore a gaping wound in his shoulder, and the man fell backwards, crashing into the altar and spilling the cups of wine that had been placed on its countertop. The third curate tried to back away, but was instantly set upon by the two burly men in Fumal Led’s group; one of the tribesmen punched the curate repeatedly in the face, stunning him. The Head Curate was aghast as the cleric drew his dagger and stabbed one of the youths in his arm, before Fumal Led drove his own blade through the top part of the head curate’s skull, killing him instantly. The remaining two curates were held down by the youths who used nearby stones and the priest’s own weapons to slaughter them.
One of the older men in the group whose name was Jig, pointed to a bronze door just behind a nearby stalactite column. “Fumal Led, look over there.”
Fumal Led ran to the side of the door. The entryway had been left partly open, and he could see a number of stone shelves and tables inside, containing numerous weapons and armor. The room was clearly an arsenal, and they could fully equip themselves before the real task could begin. The gods must surely be on their side. He turned and looked at the others. “All of you, gather here and arm yourselves, quickly!”
The others did not need to be told twice. Swords were immediately examined before being placed in their scabbards and worn. Armor that had a proper fit was donned with rapidity. Fumal Led strapped on a pair of bronze vambraces along his forearms, before he put on a rusty chainmail hauberk over his chest and shoulders. In a matter of minutes, they were all fully armed.
Now wearing a lead helm on his head, Fumal Led and the older men brought up the vanguard, as the group began to file past the altar, steadily making their way towards the upper reaches of the Temple. Several moons before, he had spent most of his days training the little group to fight effectively with whatever weapon they could get their hands on. He had specifically asked for volunteers, for he wanted neither a hesitant nor a coward for this task. He had told them they would probably end up dead, since the odds against them would be great indeed. Even the tribal chief had been told to expect harsh reprisals once their deed was known, for the penalty of rebellion meant extermination for the entire tribe. The chief and his elders debated for days until they came back with a unanimous decision to support the rebellion. The tribe had given up too many of their youth over the eons so there weren’t too many of them left, and everyone knew the end was near. But even with those bleak thoughts, they felt it was better to make the final journey in battle, than to be led like helpless beasts to the slaughter.
After moving quickly through a narrow corridor, all twenty of them were standing along the base of another set of stairs, only this time the steps seemed to have been made of polished obsidian. Just as Fumal Led was about to give the order to charge up the stairs, they heard the clanging sounds of gongs being struck. The alarm had been raised. As the group turned to look at Fumal Led for leadership, the exiled Magus noticed a horde of Exalted guardsmen making their way through the long corridor that his group had just come out of.
Jig saw it too. The former tribal protector ran back to the entrance of the tunnel and began to pull at the metallic double doors in order to seal off the passageway. Four other youths ran over to help, but the first of the Exalted was able to dash out of the corridor as he speared one of the women in the chest. Another youth smashed the Exalted’s skull in from behind using a spiked club, but two more guards were able to squeeze their way through the diminishing gap as Jig struggled mightily to close the doors. One of the Exalted ran his spear through the door slit, cutting into Jig’s neck. The furry man fell to his knees, blood gushing from his throat. It was clear they could not hold.
Krotir was a hunter, and he had been with another tribe- the Valis- but he nevertheless volunteered the moment he had been told of a plan to assassinate the Oracle. He placed a hand on Fumal Led’s shoulder. “We will hold this place as long as we can. Go find the quarry and kill her for us.”
Fumal Led looked into his deep brown eyes and sensed the truth. It was clear the others would be making their stand here. He was the lone Vis user, so the task to kill the Oracle fell unto him. Once that accursed witch was dead, the entire valley would be free. He nodded and turned around, making his way steadily up the steps and into the twilit gloom.
He ran up the wide steps and into what looked to be another cavernous hall. The moment he passed through an open door, Fumal Led turned around and closed it, locking the wide metal bolt into place. He felt almost certain the others were dead by now, but once he got to her, then his group’s sacrifice would have been worth it. Taking a torch from a nearby wall sconce, he made his way through the passageway and into the final opening.
At the far end of the vast cavern was what looked to be a gradual incline leading upwards to the mouth of some sort of gargantuan pit. Peering through the far distance, he could see the faint outlines of something fleshy and bloated situated near the edge of the smoky chasm, but he could not fully discern what it could be. Fumal Led strode forward, his right hand on the grip of the sword strapped along his waist, ready to draw it out. A lithe figure soon came walking down the slight incline until she came into view.
The Oracle looked like a young woman. She had pale, delicate features, with long flowing raven hair. Dressed only in a simple loincloth, she was obviously unarmed. For a few seconds Fumal Led hesitated, before finally drawing his blade as he advanced at her while dropping the torch onto the stone ground. A strange thought began gnawing at him, for the Oracle didn’t seem to be afraid of him at all.
She held her arms out, as if to welcome him somehow. “I was expecting you, Fumal Led, exile of the Magi Order.”
Fumal Led stopped in his tracks. Was she a Striga? He instantly strengthened his thought defenses while making sure his helm was strapped on tight. Strigas were the female counterparts to the Magi, and they were gifted with the mindsense, a power that could delve into the thoughts of others and even control them. It was strange since he had been trained to know when someone was prying into his mind, yet he had completely failed to detect her mindsense somehow. Nevertheless, he was on guard, expecting her to attack his mind.
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