by Jon Monson
“Byanca,” he whispered.
This couldn’t be. He had seen the light fade from those eyes. His heart had nearly burst as his wife had fallen to the floor.
And yet, here she stood. Those eyes were again full of life. Those cheeks were flushed as her heart obviously pumped blood throughout her body.
“Byanca,” Aydiin called out, forgetting the battle raging around him.
Those eyes turned to him, and their light seemed to grow brighter. A smile spread across those beautiful lips, enhancing the beauty. Her joy seemed to be comparable to his own.
He had no idea how she was alive. He didn’t know to whom he should pray in thanks. All that he cared about was that she was here.
“What did you do to Byanca?” Aydiin shouted to Barrick, who still stood by his side.
“I’ll have to explain later, mate,” he said, discharging his revolver into one of the last remaining Squires.
The man fell to the ground. Then another man and another. Then, there were no more black robes remaining upright.
A quiet settled in over the room. The haze from all the gunpowder filled the chamber, adding to the silence. No one moved. No one spoke.
Aydiin let out a sigh. It was over. Somehow, they had won.
“Well, well, you certainly do have more friends than I would have guessed,” Arathorm’s voice called out from behind and Aydiin’s blood ran cold.
A strong arm reached around his shoulders from behind, and Aydiin struggled against the surprisingly firm grip of the aging Grand Master. Aydiin’s elbow slammed into Arathorm’s stomach, and the man let out an audible groan. Yet his grip remained firm.
Aydiin continued to struggle until he felt cold steel press against his throat. He stopped moving, barely daring to breathe. He closed his eyes, preparing for the end to come.
He heard Byanca scream across the room and footsteps pounded on the stone floor. Aydiin opened his eyes to see Byanca and his rescuers rushing towards him. Arathorm’s grip tightened and the blade pressed slightly harder into his skin.
“If you value your friend’s life, you won’t move another step,” Arathorm hissed.
Byanca slowed to a stop, motioning for the others to do the same. She was breathing heavily from the exertion and her hair was a mess. Even with the blade pressing against his throat, Aydiin still couldn’t believe she was alive – and how beautiful she looked.
“I’ll just be on my way,” Arathorm said, dragging Aydiin towards the small closet Barrick had wanted to use as an escape route. “If any of you come after us, I’ll slit his throat.”
“Face it, you’ve lost old man,” one of the rescuers called out, as he moved in between Arathorm and the stone altar. “The Order is finished in Maradon. You’ll never spill that man’s blood on the altar. The Return will not happen this night.”
Aydiin was surprised at the man’s words. He somehow knew what the Order had intended. He knew this, and still he had come to Aydiin’s rescue. The man was brave, indeed.
“Maybe not this day,” Arathorm laughed, continuing closer to his escape. “Yet the war is long. I’ll have my day.”
Aydiin felt despair creep in. He stood motionless, his hands hanging down at his sides. The thought occurred to him that he should be using them to fight, to do anything. Yet the feeling of the blade against his neck made him compliant.
Motion in the corner of the room caught Aydiin’s eye. In the darkness stood Barrick, a long shadow blade in his hand. He held it high for Aydiin to see.
Smiling, Barrick gave a stabbing motion. Aydiin had no idea what that meant. Barrick really must have lost his mind.
Then he disappeared. He was standing there and then he was gone. Aydiin blinked in confusion.
Something was being forced into his hand, and Aydiin shot his gaze down to the ground. Barrick was lying on the floor, forcing the dark shadow blade into his right hand. A shot of adrenaline rushed through his veins as he realized what the man’s actions meant.
Gripping the blade firmly in his hand, Aydiin swung backwards. The dark knife hit home, slamming into Arathorm’s abdomen. Warm blood streamed onto Aydiin’s hand as he twisted the knife.
Arathorm gasped, hands dropping his own blade. Aydiin ducked and rolled away from the man, knowing he would not have long until the Grand Master recovered. Coming to a stop, his eyes widened as they fell upon Arathorm.
The blade still protruded from the man’s stomach, blood rushing out freely. Dark liquid spread along the violet robes, staining the rich cloth. It began to trickle down, onto the floor.
Aydiin’s gaze rose to look into Arathorm’s face. It was pale, the mouth partially open. His lips began quivering.
The Grand Master’s eyes grew wide - the look of a man who had reached the end. Aydiin had seen that expression more times than he would like to recall. His own face had displayed those same emotions only minutes ago.
Arathorm collapsed to the ground, his hands clutching the blade’s handle. Blood continued pouring out of the wound, covering the aging gentleman’s hands. The ceremonial robes were drenched with the liquid.
“You can’t win this,” Arathorm whispered, his eyes finding Aydiin’s. “The Raven will eclipse the sun. It’s a fate that can’t be avoided – only embraced.”
The Blade began to pulse in Arathorm’s stomach, and a darkness began to spread from the wound. It crept down the Grand Master’s legs and up his abdomen. Where it went, Arathorm’s body stiffened into obsidian, hard and unforgiving as glass.
“Embrace the Great Lord, my Prince,” Arathorm whispered as the darkness crept up his neck, threatening to envelope his face. “All else is futile.”
With those words, Arathorm’s mouth grew dark and then stiffened. The words seemed to hang in the air, even as the man who spoke them no longer clung to life. Their meaning echoed in the stone chamber.
“Well that was unexpected,” Barrick’s drawl sounded behind Aydiin’s shoulder.
“You didn’t know that would happen?” Aydiin asked, turning to face the walking enigma he’d spent the past weeks cursing.
“Call it a hunch,” Barrick shrugged.
Footsteps sounded from the other side of the room, reminding Aydiin that they were far from alone. He turned to see the most beautiful set of eyes approaching him. This time, there was no fear as he saw them, only joy.
With a smile, those eyes rushed him and strong feminine arms wrapped around his middle in a tight embrace. Aydiin returned the motion, careful to avoid making contact with his blood-covered hands. He was sure he looked rather silly, arms wrapped around his wife yet his hands held awkwardly away from her.
He could feel tears soaking into his robes as Byanca’s head nuzzled deeper into his chest. A few strands of hair tickled his face, and he nuzzled back into the sea of auburn. This was met by a tighter squeeze from those surprisingly strong arms.
“We should be leaving,” a deep voice sounded, and Aydiin looked up to see one of the warriors approaching.
Unlike his colorfully dressed comrades, he wore robes of pure white. They were besmirched with dirt and blood, but it was obvious the man cared for the clothing. Aydiin had never seen a simple tribesman dressed this way.
His head was perfectly shaved, the dark skin gleaming in the torchlight. The man stared at Aydiin, his face harder than stone. Yet behind the strength, there was a smile in those eyes.
“I need to thank you for saving my life,” Aydiin said without letting go of Byanca.
“One does not need thanks for doing one’s duty, my Lord,” the man replied, bowing to one knee. “It is an honor to serve the Heir of Alarun.”
Aydiin raised an eyebrow. How could this man possibly know who he was? The very thought made him uneasy.
Besides the man’s deference, there was something else that made Aydiin squirm. Somewhere in the recesses of his memories, there was this stranger. He couldn’t recall ever seeing the man’s face before, but there was definitely something familiar about him.
“Aydiin, let me introduce you to Rashad,” Byanca said, pulling herself out of the embrace. “He is a friend of Gamila. In fact, he saved my own life tonight before coming here to save yours.”
“Now I thought I saved yer life,” Barrick drawled with a smile.
“You almost got me killed,” Byanca rounded on Barrick, slapping the man in the face. “You turned me over to that madman. He tried to operate on me while I was still alive.”
“How was I supposed ter know he’d be crazy?” Barrick asked, rubbing his face where Byanca’s hand had left a mark.
“It is not Mr. Fortescue’s fault,” Rashad cut in. “He may have made a grave error in his judgement of the city’s coroner, but his intentions were just.”
“That voice,” Aydiin said, the realization slamming into him. “You’re the one who gave me the disc – the one that led me to the Lonely Spire.”
“I am very glad indeed to see that you survived the ordeal with your uncle,” Rashad smiled. “And even happier to see that you followed your destiny.”
“Yer the nutter who started all this?” Barrick exclaimed, his eyes growing wide.
“I am the one who gave our prince a little push in the right direction,” Rashad said. “In Aydiin, I saw a man who has been given power, but does not want it. Yet when it is thrust upon him, he does what is necessary. I can think of no one better to become the Heir of Alarun.”
“Can we please talk about all this somewhere else?” Byanca asked. “We’re currently standing in a room filled with dead bodies, including a former Grand Master of the Order. The sooner we leave this place, the better.”
“Right you are,” Rashad nodded. “I’ll have my men seal these entrances. Arathorm’s disappearance would normally make quite the splash in Maradon’s gossip machine if it weren’t for everything else that’s happening.”
“I’m assuming you’ll explain everything to me once we’re somewhere safe,” Aydiin responded.
“Of course,” Rashad smiled. “We’ll keep you in my people’s camp outside the city walls until you decide what to do next.”
“Next?” Barrick asked. “We’ve won – it’s time for some celebration.”
“This is far from over,” Aydiin said. “We have a lot to do.”
Arathorm’s final words seemed to echo in his mind.
You can’t win this. All is futile.
Grabbing Byanca’s hand – now heedless of its filth - Aydiin followed Rashad and the others out of the Silent Chapel. There was a lot of work to do. He only hoped he would be up to the task.
Epilogue
Gamila stood at her window, torn between thoughts of Rashad and the sights and sounds of a city engulfed in chaos. An orange glow hung in the air, and the young princess was unsure if it came from an out of control blaze or torches held by unwieldy mobs. Either way, she knew this night would be a sleepless one, both for herself and her people.
“This is a dangerous night to be standing near a window,” her father’s voice sounded from behind. Dressed in a crisp white military uniform, complete with medals and matching turban, the Sultan looked ready to do his duties. Yet there was an exhaustion in his voice that surprised Gamila.
“Well I can’t exactly sleep,” Gamila said, wanting to ask if the man had ever heard of asking permission before entering his daughter’s apartments. Yet she knew he would be in no mood for such talk.
“There will be much work to do in the morning,” Oosman sighed. “After these riots end, the city will need to be cleaned and buildings rebuilt. It will be much easier to comfort our people if you’re rested.”
“I had no idea the people of Maradon were so on edge,” Gamila sighed, turning away from the window and towards her father. “All it took to initiate pure chaos was the absence of the Great Stone.”
“We’ll find whoever stole it,” Oosman said, embracing his daughter. “The guilty will be punished, and soon our nation’s greatest treasure will be back in its rightful spot.”
Gamila didn’t respond. She had spoken with Byanca for only a few moments before Rashad forced her to keep the promise she’d given him of returning to the palace. Yet in those brief moments, her sister-in-law had told her enough.
She knew the Stone would never be reunited with the statue of her great grandfather. Never again would the Stone be used by the city’s Fire-dancers to magnify their divine powers. It would never again force the people of Salatia to bow to her father’s will.
It was gone, somehow part of her dear brother. Byanca had only offered the briefest of explanations. Gamila didn’t know when she would see her brother again. She didn’t know exactly what it was he faced or even if he still lived.
Yet she knew that from this moment on, nothing would ever be the same again.
◆◆◆
Aydiin watched as Rashad passed a rather large sausage to Byanca, the meat skewered on a stick for his wife to cook over the crackling fire. Their savior had led them to his camp, well outside of the city walls – far from the chaos that was currently engulfing Maradon. He hoped they would be safe here, entrusting their lives with this man they had just met. Yet Aydiin didn’t know what other choice they had.
Not a word had been spoken since leaving the Silent Chapel. Aydiin was itching for answers, yet an oppressiveness hung in the air. True, they had just scored a great victory. Yet there was still so much ahead of them.
Byanca sat, turning her sausage over the flames. Barrick did the same, a smile in his eyes that defied the events of the evening. Perhaps that smile was in spite of the night’s deeds.
Rashad’s perfectly shaved head reflected the orange glow of the flames. It reminded him of Sebastian, and he wondered not for the first time if the old soldier was safe. Although the two men were completely different, their purposeful lack of hair somehow linked them together in his mind.
“You’re one of those heretics,” Aydiin said. “You worship Alarun.”
“Of course,” Rashad said. “But I’m more than just ‘one of those heretics’ – I’m the heretic. I’m the High Priest of Alarun, the leader of the Disciples of the Sun. And I’m at your service as long as you require me.”
“If you continue proving as useful as you did tonight, I believe we’ll need you until the very end,” Byanca said.
“When exactly is the end, mate?” Barrick asked.
“No one can know for sure,” Rashad shook his head. “The Forgotten Sun has risen – nothing can stop the coming of the Final Battle. We can only do our best to prepare young Aydiin to defeat the Raven when he is freed from his prison.”
“Can’t we do something to stop him from being freed?” Aydiin asked. “We stopped the Order from doing it tonight.”
“The Order is a bunch of fools who have no understanding,” Rashad responded, his eyes focused on the flames. “Killing you tonight would not have brought the Raven back from the Underworld. You need all of the Great Stones to do that.”
“Sounds like we should be focusing on not finding the Stones then,” Barrick said. “As long as Aydiin doesn’t have ‘em, the Order will never be able to win.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Mr. Fortescue,” Rashad said. “Now that Aydiin has found the Stone of Alarun, the prison has started to weaken. Unless Aydiin can find all the Stones, it won’t matter if the Raven is released – his minions will escape and lay waste to this world.”
“So we need to figure out how to find those Stones,” Aydiin sighed. “I’m not sure where to start.”
For the first time, a smile spread across Rashad’s face.
“Luckily for you, I do.”
◆◆◆
The man called Cumhacht relished the weight of the golden fringe that had been added to his violet robes as he descended into the darkness. The stone steps were ancient, carved by survivors of the War of Divinity nearly a thousand years prior. Those men would likely cringe to see the use he had found for the subterranean chamber.
His footsteps echoed in the silence
as he traversed the tunnels leading to his destination. The steady beating of a drum reached his ears, and a smile spread across his face. The time had come.
The sight of black and violet robed figures standing at attention greeted Cumhacht as he entered a large chamber. Flickering torch light cast long shadows throughout the room. It was a sight he had long waited for.
As he entered, the beating of the drum ceased. Silence filled the chamber. Only the sound of his footsteps broke the holiness.
His smile broadened as he saw eight corpses bound to a perfectly circular altar. Their blood coated the entire surface, sanctifying the stone. The blood of eight Stone wielders – one from each Divine – was the only way to fulfill their purpose this evening.
The idiot preceding Cumhacht as Grand Master had failed, and now ushering in the Return would be more difficult than ever. This was no secret to the Great Raven.
Without that fool prince and his Stone, bringing the Undergods to the mortal plane would be impossible. Yet the bonds holding his master were growing weak. The Raven may not yet be freed, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t send a bit of extra help.
Or a lot.
Cumhacht reached for the chain that had hung around his neck for what felt like an eternity. Lifting the intricately braided gold over his head, his eyes caught sight of the lemon-sized Stone dangling in the air. The torchlight danced and played on its delicate blue surface.
Hands shaking, Cumhacht lowered the Stone onto the altar. He had used the Great Stone for only mundane purposes in recent years. Now, it was time for it to be used properly.
The Stone began to glow, a fierce electric blue light emanating from deep within its core. It filled the room, making the torch light seem dim in comparison. Cumhacht’s eyes protested the sudden burst, but he forced them to remain open.
A bubble formed in the blood coating the altar. It popped, but was soon joined by another. A third bubble sprang up, and then a fourth. The entire altar bubbled and churned as if it were a pot of boiling water.