The Godling Chronicles

by Brian D. Anderson

  “Eldest,” whispered Gia. These were the only words she spoke before crumbling completely to the ground.

  Jayden rushed to her side, ignoring the newcomer. He placed a hand to her brow. As expected, she was burning with fever.

  “A strong one to have come so far,” remarked Felsafell. “Oh, yes. Strong. Yet rash.”

  “Can you help her?” Jayden asked.

  “A healer I am not. Keep her alive, I can for now. Until you make your choice.”

  “Speak sense. Can you help her or not?”

  Felsafell approached with long, sure strides that belied his withered frame. Reaching into a small pouch hanging from his belt, he retrieved a tiny yellow mushroom. “Give her this. But do not heal her otherwise. Oh, no. Not yet. Not until you’ve had time to think. Time to choose.”

  The stories about Felsafell and his wisdom had not prepared Jayden for the odd little man standing over him. But if he was as wise as they said, he thought it best to obey.

  Gently opening Gia’s mouth, he dropped the mushroom to the back of her throat. After a few coughs and jerks, she swallowed it whole. He then tried to brush the hair from her sweat-soaked brow, but she moaned and shifted her head away. It seemed as if, even in this state, she was determined to resist contact with him.

  “If you please,” said Felsafell, gesturing for him to move aside. “The way is long, and we must not tarry.”

  Jayden looked on in slack-jawed astonishment as the old hermit hefted Gia onto his shoulder as easily as if he were picking up a small child.

  “An uncomfortable way to travel,” he said. “But mind she won’t, I think.”

  With that, he bounded up the hill at astonishing speed. Jayden followed as best as he could, though soon found himself falling further behind with every step. He tried to run, but the terrain would not allow for anything other than short sprints, just enough to keep him from losing sight of the man…or whatever he was.

  They continued in this way for several hours. Even using the flow, Jayden could feel his legs tiring. At the same time, his sense of being watched grew stronger. Now deep into the interior of the Spirit Hills, the landscape here was much different to the outskirts. Tiny streams snaked their way between the slopes, their beds glistening with multi-colored pebbles. Though the trees still looked quite old, they were not nearly as menacing. Sunlight poured in through the canopy, peppering the turf with pinpricks of light, like stars on a green and brown sky.

  Jayden noticed that although Felsafell moved at great speed, Gia’s body jostled only very slightly, even when they were passing over the roughest of ground. He knew the old hermit’s physical form was just a deception; the First Born was reputed to be able to change shape completely. One story his mother had told him said that his true appearance was almost elf-like, with ebony skin, silver hair, and standing nearly seven feet tall.

  It was well into the afternoon before they slowed their pace. Felsafell then allowed Jayden to catch up and walk beside him. How much ground they had covered was unclear, though the burning in his muscles suggested they had come far.

  “Almost there,” Felsafell told him. “Oh, yes. Soon we will arrive.”

  Virtually as he spoke, Jayden spotted a thin line of smoke climbing above the treetops. Soon the air was filled with the tantalizing aroma of roasting meat and bread. His stomach rumbled with hunger.

  “Empty bellies and tired legs must wait until the sun has gone to bed,” Felsafell told him. “But my table will be filled once questions are answered.”

  “Good,” said Jayden. “I have many.”

  The old man gave him a lopsided smile. “Oh, no. Not your questions. Mine.”

  A narrow trail led to a tiny house with a thatched roof and a broad porch stretching all along the front. On this, several chairs had been scattered haphazardly about. To Jayden’s eyes, the house itself was ramshackle, to say the least. With its off-square corners and poorly fitted walls, it resembled a shelter thrown together in haste by someone not particularly skilled in the craft of building. Even the door, barely hanging in place on rusting hinges, looked badly out of sorts.

  Felsafell stepped inside with Jayden close behind. To the left he saw an iron stove and a hearth, along with several rickety cabinets and counters. More to the center were some low-backed chairs and a round table, its top piled high with dishes and utensils in need of cleaning. On the opposite side were a pair of beds, a dresser, and several wooden chests. As for the décor, it was non-existent. Not a single picture nor keepsake of any kind had been hung on the walls. Only a bow and a quiver of arrows was propped up near the front door.

  After setting Gia on one of the beds, Felsafell removed her pack and weapons, then laid her down and covered her with a blanket. This done, he walked over to the stove, where a pot was steaming, and took a long sniff. In the hearth was meat that Jayden guessed to be venison roasting on a spit. Felsafell poked this with his finger and smiled.

  “Almost ready it is. Good thing my kin are watchful. Otherwise an empty stomach would make your visit unpleasant.”

  Jayden cocked his head. “Your kin?”

  “It matters not,” he said, waving a dismissive hand.

  With the same energy he had shown when traversing the hills, he quickly gathered up the dishes from the table and carried them to the door.

  “Be at ease,” he said. “I will not be long. Then talk we must.”

  He exited the house, leaving Jayden to place his belongings in the corner alongside Gia’s. With some of the color returning, she looked quite a bit better than she had before. He could also see that she had stopped perspiring. He felt her brow and breathed a sigh of relief. The fever had gone down considerably. Of course, this might be just a temporary reprieve. Felsafell had plainly stated that he was not able to heal her.

  The old hermit returned after only a short time, humming merrily and bearing clean dishes. After placing these in one of the cabinets, he crossed over to Gia and regarded her for several minutes.

  “She will not last the night,” he eventually said. “A sad thing when the young perish. Oh, yes. Time is the enemy of mortal dreams.” He looked over to Jayden. “But for you, time is both friend and foe. That is what they tell me. Oh, yes. Mother’s grace is laid upon you. And yet you are absent from her sight. A mystery. One I fear I cannot solve. Perhaps you can help these tired eyes see more clearly?”

  “If you really are Felsafell, it is I who need your help,” Jayden told him.

  “Help? I cannot help. You can save her. But at a price.”

  “I wasn’t talking about Gia. I need your help to save my parents.”

  Felsafell looked into his eyes, then turned toward the door. “I hear my kin. Their words are peculiar. But you…even more so. Come. Let us take our ease. Even the strong must rest tired legs.”

  Jayden went with him to the porch, where Felsafell plopped down into one of the chairs. Jayden sat opposite. Yes, his legs were tired. But the need for urgency was growing.

  “A child of gods you are indeed,” Felsafell said. Reaching inside his shirt, he produced a short wooden pipe and a small portion of tobacco. After lighting the pipe and puffing several times, a tiny smile grew from the corners of his mouth. “So seldom do I have company. And yours is unexpected. I’ve only food to share. These pleasures I have are but a few.”

  “Please,” pressed Jayden. “I need you to listen.”

  The old hermit raised a bushy eyebrow. “Why? I have nothing to say that you would hear. You, however…how is it you live? Your time is here, and yet it has not come. That is what they tell me. My kin fear you. And fear is all but unknown to them. They shun your presence.”

  “If I tell you why, will you help me?”

  Felsafell chuckled, the pipe still gripped between his teeth. “Like the rest, you come seeking my aid. Yet I am not who you think me to be. I have no power. Only age.”

  “Yes or no,” snapped Jayden.

  He shrugged. “Tell me your tale. I will do what
I can.”

  By now, Jayden was beginning to doubt the wisdom of coming. Here he was, hoping to find answers, and the oldest living being in the world seemed to know nothing. Nevertheless, having come this far, he had to press on. As quickly and clearly as possible, he recounted where he was from and how he’d come to be here. “My father has no memory of anything,” he concluded. “I need to find a way to make him remember.”

  Felsafell’s countenance darkened. “These are things I should not know. I now see why my kin fear you. Oh, yes. You do not belong. And you if speak true, the Bull has come to upend creation.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “Think I must on what you have said.”

  Felsafell stood and started for the porch steps. “My kin I will consult. For now, eat and rest. I will return.”

  Jayden sprang up. “What about Gia?”

  “The elf is lost, unless you choose her. But be warned: saving her will bind your fate. Your path will be fixed. That much my kin can see. More than that…I cannot say.”

  Leaving a dumbfounded Jayden standing on the porch, Felsafell moved rapidly away from and vanished down the front path.

  Saving her will bind your fate.

  These ominous words rang out in his mind like the ghostly howling of wolves in the deep of winter, chilling him to the core. For several minutes he remained motionless while speculating on their exact meaning.

  Still with no clear picture, he went back inside to check on Gia. Though her fever was still low, the color that had returned was now draining away once again. The tiny beads of sweat had also reappeared. Was the mushroom’s effect wearing off? He had no idea how long it would last. He scolded himself silently for not having asked.

  He reached down to touch her wound, but withdrew his hand before making contact. Maybe a bite to eat first? Then he could decide what to do.

  A search of the cabinets produced a knife suitable for carving off some meat. Inside the pot he found a stew of potatoes and wild onions. After filling a plate and bowl, he sat at the table and stared at the food for several minutes. His stomach was empty, but he had no desire to eat. His eyes kept drifting over to Gia. What was he waiting for? He knew he should go over and help her. It was only Felsafell’s words holding him back. Would his path really be fixed? He had never believed in fate. But now…

  A loud gasp from Gia broke into his thoughts. The next moment she was thrashing her head about violently, crying out in garbled words. Jayden sprang from his seat and rushed to the bed. Without thinking, he placed his hands on her shoulders, drawing in every bit of the flow that he could manage. In response, Gia reached up to push him away. Her strength was alarming.

  No!

  The single word ripped through Jayden’s mind repeatedly as the flow penetrated Gia’s spirit. She was pleading for him to stop. But it was too late. The bond had already been formed. Only now did he understand why she had resisted so powerfully. A vast flow of unfamiliar images assaulted his mind through their connection. So fast did they come, his head was swimming, much like when he had drunk too much wine.

  “Afisul Si Damon.”

  He wasn’t sure if he had actually spoken the words or merely thought them.

  Gia’s eyes popped open and she released her hold, her body going limp. It was only then Jayden noticed that all her wounds were healed. Completely. It was as if they had never been there.

  “Why?” Her voice was barely a whisper. Tears began streaming down her cheeks.

  Unable to answer, Jayden backed away, torrents of emotion crashing over him and threatening to bring him to his knees. He staggered over to the table and leaned down on his elbows.

  “I told you no,” Gia protested in a barely audible voice. “You had no right…”

  “I…I didn’t intend…”

  Sliding onto a chair, he laid his head on the table. The bond was overpowering his senses. He had experienced something similar with his sisters, only this was a thousand times more intense. Moreover, he could feel that she was within his mind. No...not only his mind. His very soul. He was open to her in a way he was completely unable to fully grasp.

  Gia was attempting to sit up, but was still too weak. “You can’t be,” she muttered. “No. No. I refuse to believe it. This cannot be true.”

  At that moment the door opened and Felsafell stepped inside. A look of consternation quickly formed. “Wise words you do not heed, I see,” he remarked.

  Hurrying over to a chest at the foot of the empty bed, he plucked out a tiny blue bottle. He then sat beside Gia. “You must be calm. Drink and forget. Rest. Troubles will be waiting for you. No need to seek them now.”

  Gia glared at him, her jaw set tight. “You told him to do this?”

  Felsafell smiled warmly and held out the bottle. “Fate is fate. Like you, I am its servant, not its master. You tried to escape its hold and failed. There is nothing to be done. But do not fret. Drink and sleep for now. Strength you will need come morning. This will see you through.”

  After taking a lengthy look at the bottle, she gave a resigned sigh and drank its contents. Within seconds her eyes were closed and her breathing long and steady.

  “She will sleep until dawn,” Felsafell said. “Then you must leave.”

  Jayden was still dizzy. Even when Gia was asleep, he could feel her mind touching his own. What had he done? And how? He felt a hand touch his shoulder.

  “Come with me,” the old hermit said. “A journey you must take. But first there is much to say.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Lord Zarin, the Bull of the West, stared down at the coin: just one small copper disk lying upon a huge map stretched out across the table. It elicited feelings within him that were hard to fathom...a combination of guilt, doubt, and sorrow. But why? The coin was clearly a forgery. Perhaps it was more to do with the young elf who had possessed it. Was it something he had said? Something about the way he looked at him, as if they had met before?

  The sword the boy had carried was of excellent craftsmanship, a touch heavier than most elf blades, but perfectly balanced. He had decided to keep it for himself. His own sword, having hewn through the armor and steel of countless foes, was chipped and in dire need of repair.

  Picking up a wine bottle from the arm of his chair, he took a long drink. It failed to satisfy him. He needed something stronger.

  “Brandy,” he barked over to the young captain standing beside the tent’s exit.

  The captain gave a salute and quickly ducked out.

  Zarin finished the wine anyway, then tossed the bottle aside. He always found getting drunk to be a challenge. It took many times the amount of brandy for him than for other men. As for wine...it was impossible. His belly would burst before he felt its effects.

  The escape of the prisoners had gone as planned. All of them were able-bodied, so in the eyes of their elf brothers, they were worth rescuing. Though savages who left their wounded behind, he knew they could not pass up such an easy opportunity to reclaim men still capable of fighting. That was why he had ordered the prisoners to be hanged so far away from the main camp. And the enemy had been foolish enough to take the bait.

  Unable to count on the skills of his men, Zarin had personally tracked the fleeing prisoners to their secret camp. Even though his abilities in this respect were second to none, many times he had wished his own trackers possessed the talents of the renowned elf seekers. The seekers, of course, were well aware of their great superiority over their human counterparts. It was this arrogance as much as anything else that had led to their downfall. In fact, the same failing was true with nearly all elves. That was why they would soon be eradicated. Humans had feared them long enough. Even so, their strength and capabilities were still worth admiration. Most had been worthy foes, and brave too. As with the elves, desertion was now rare among his own men, though such had not been the case before his arrival from…

  He creased his brow for a moment, struggling to remember. But it was pointless. Whatever had ha
ppened to make him forget his past, it was no longer important. He was Lord Zarin now – the Bull of the West. The most feared human alive. And once the war was won, he would carve out a kingdom of his own, one that would rival that of the Ancient King of Angrääl.

  The tent flap opened and the captain returned, a bottle of brandy in each hand. “Lord Ergona has asked if he may have a word,” he said while placing the bottles on the table.

  Zarin sighed heavily. “Send him in.”

  The captain exited once again. A few seconds later, a tall lean man with long dark curls and thin, delicate features entered. He was dressed in an extravagant blue satin robe rather than the plain wool or cotton garb typical for a military camp. Zarin didn’t exactly dislike Lord Ergona, it was more a grudging tolerance. The man was arrogant and self-involved, as were most nobles. This was a trait that Zarin despised. But Ergona was also a particularly good military strategist – despite the fact that he was personally worse than useless with a blade.

  “What can I do for you?” Zarin asked, foregoing any preamble.

  Ergona bowed formally. “I have heard that you plan for our forces to retreat to the north, my Lord.”

  “You have heard correctly. Am I to assume that you disagree with my decision?”

  “I would not presume. Though I will admit that I do not understand your reasoning. We have the elves on the run. One more year at best and they will be utterly defeated. Why pull back now?”

  “I have no intention of this war lasting for another year,” Zarin told him.

  He uncorked the brandy and turned up the bottle. After several gulps he offered it over to Ergona, who looked around the tent as if expecting there to be a glass somewhere. Finding none, he smiled and held up his hand.

  Zarin scowled. “You think I have some sort of disease?”

  Ergona shook his head and quickly accepted the bottle. “Not at all. Forgive me. I sometimes forget myself.”

  “You’ll be back in your manor soon enough. Then you can drink from any glass you want.”