Champion of the Gods Box Set

by Andrew Q. Gordon

  Markus turned to Miceral. “Your father? Isn’t he the king of the Muchari?”

  “He is, but that means something very different than among humans. You can ask him to explain.” He gently gripped Farrell’s shoulders and kneaded them for a moment. “Farrell’s correct about my strict enforcement of his curfew. If I waste any more time, he’s going to believe I’m doing it to delay us so we can’t go.”

  “Exactly.” Farrell quickly laid out the Door, taking care to shield his work to avoid setting off the alarms that detected unauthorized use of magic like this. When the Door flared to life, Markus glared at the portal.

  “That’s disconcerting.”

  “What?” Farrell examined his work and found nothing wrong.

  “I’ve been assured that only approved wizards can open a Door into or out of the palace. And yet you just did.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I can only open a Door out of the palace. The binding spells that protect the grounds are strong enough to prevent even me from opening one from somewhere else to here without permission.”

  Markus nodded but didn’t look comforted. Before the conversation went any further, Farrell motioned for Markus and his partner to step through.

  “Welcome to Haven, cousin.” Farrell received the hoped-for smile from his greeting. “I brought you to our suite because I need to leave the Door open or else I can’t get us back. This is the safest place to leave an open Door.”

  A magically amplified knock filled their suite.

  “That would be my father,” Miceral said. “He’s always early.”

  “A fine trait for a first minister.” Markus smiled.

  Horgon entered and, with the grace and polish Farrell admired so much, welcomed Markus and took charge of the visiting monarch. Relieved that Horgon had the situation under control, Farrell led Miceral toward the permanent Door in their room.

  Seconds later they stood outside the giant temple of Khron in the deserted dwarf city. The forty-foot dwarf statues looked down on them as they scaled the steps to the massive front doors. Though he knew it was just in his mind, the serious and solemn expressions on the faces of the stone guardians had softened since their first encounter.

  Farrell entered the temple and started for Father Aswick’s chamber. Miceral grabbed his arm, nearly yanking him off balance. He pointed toward the altar, and Farrell realized his error and bowed deeply.

  “What if he’s not here?” Miceral asked.

  “I believe he’s alerted the moment we enter the city.” Farrell reached in his pocket for the cylinder that held Khron’s gift. “But for certain he knew the moment we entered the temple.”

  “You are correct, Chosen.”

  They turned in the direction of the voice, and Farrell found the elderly dwarf standing at the end of the aisle. Aswick smiled broadly as he walked toward them. He wore the formal robes of his office, but he appeared years—even decades—younger.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I expected you’d be gone for quite some time.”

  “We need your assistance, Holy Father.”

  Aswick surprised Farrell by not responding to his request. Instead he led them out of the temple.

  “For three hundred years I lived in those rooms. A change of scenery is always welcome.” When they reached the main entrance leading out into the city, he paused. “I’ve wanted to walk about outside the temple but feared to do so alone lest I encounter the ghosts of my long-dead people.”

  His eyes clouded with unshed tears as he stared out at the long-vacant city. After several moments, Aswick pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath, and looked up. “How may I be of assistance?”

  Farrell had kept his hand inside his pocket and finally removed it and the case. Without a word, he unsealed the top and slid the Arm into his hand. Aswick’s confused look turned to awe, followed quickly by outrage.

  “How did you come by that?”

  “Kel left it for me along with the Eye of Honorus.”

  Aswick stared at the Gift with a longing Farrell had seen in Gedrin’s eye. For reasons he didn’t understand, he opened his hand and offered it to the priest.

  The anger drained from the dwarf’s craggy face, replaced by a look of pure joy. He ran his thick fingers over the smooth surface but never tried to take it.

  “You honor me with your trust.” Aswick’s fingers lingered on the jewel before he pulled his hand away. “I will not take it. The Arm is with the one Khron wishes to have it.”

  Sensing the priest’s inner conflict, Farrell stowed the Arm in its container and put it away. Aswick’s eyes followed the movement and lingered on Farrell’s pocket long after the Arm had disappeared.

  “The Arm used to rest in this temple, but after Trellham’s destruction, we never saw it again. Our prayers for its return always went unanswered. It was believed Khron took it from the dwarves to punish us for our weakness. At least now we know he gave it to His champion.”

  “Can you tell us how to use it?” Miceral asked.

  “No, I cannot.” He shook his head. “All I know is that you need to use a specific prayer to Khron. I will use my ample free time to search the records both here and in Fracturn and Colograd.”

  Something about Father Aswick looking for the answer didn’t feel right. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think asking you to look for me was what Kel meant when he sent me to you for aid.”

  “Short of asking for divine intervention, I don’t know what else I can do to help.”

  “You mean . . . ask . . .” He twisted until he could see the statue of Khron seated on the massive throne inside the temple. “Khron?”

  Aswick chuckled and clapped Farrell on the back. “That is generally what is meant by divine intervention, child.”

  The idea of asking Khron to show up and speak didn’t appeal to him, but he recognized it had merit. He swallowed with a bit of effort and nodded.

  Quietly the three returned to the main temple. Aswick led them to a small area just to the right of Khron’s throne. Miceral joined them, drawing a questioning look from Farrell.

  “Khron also chose me. Maybe I can help.”

  “All who wish to speak to Khron are welcome in His house.” Aswick made room to accommodate a third person.

  Farrell followed the priest’s example and knelt before the altar.

  “There are no special words needed to ask for His help.” Aswick’s voice was calm and soothing. “Open your hearts and let the Eternal Warrior hear your prayer. If your plea is worthy and your purpose true, He will send you what He deems necessary.”

  Although not exactly what he hoped for, Farrell accepted the words and composed his prayer.

  “Holy Khron,” he began. “I come to You and seek Your help. My ancestor, Kel, passed on to me Your Gift and said I would need it to carry out Your will.”

  Farrell chewed his bottom lip. He’d prayed before for guidance and help but never for something this specific. Did he ask outright or did he just make a general request for assistance? Would Khron answer him if he didn’t couch it right? His struggle was interrupted by thick dwarfish fingers covering his hand.

  “Speak to him from the heart, child. He does not need flowery speech or the perfect words. Be honest with Him and yourself and let your prayer come out.”

  He took a deep breath and nodded several times before he let out the air. “Holy Khron, You have laid much at my feet, but I do all I can to be the Champion you need, the Champion you deserve. I’ve been given the Arm, but I do not know how to use it. I believe it came to me because that was Your will, and if I’m right, it must also be Your will that I use it in Your name. If You find me worthy of the honor You’ve given me, I ask that You show me how to use Your Gift so I can stand up to those who would enslave Your followers.”

  Farrell kept his head down but felt Aswick squeeze his hand. He heard his breathing in the silent temple. As the seconds dragged on, he wondered if Khron had rejected his prayer or
if he needed to say more. Only the steady pressure of Father Aswick’s hand kept him from standing up in defeat.

  Suddenly the floor shook, as if hit with a thunderous blow, and a flash filled the temple. When he opened his eyes, the statue of Khron had been replaced by a shimmering ethereal body. The boots that filled the uppermost part of his vision shifted, and the building swayed with the movement.

  “WELCOME, MY FAITHFUL CHAMPION.” The voice echoed off the walls of the massive temple. “REJOICE, FOR I HEARD YOUR WORDS AND DEEM YOU WORTHY. BRING OUT MY ARM THAT I MAY TEACH YOU TO USE IT.”

  Farrell’s hands fumbled for a moment to unscrew the top and expose the silver staff. He held it in front of him so Aswick and Miceral could add their hands to his.

  “TEACH THE FAITHFUL THAT IN TIMES OF NEED THEY MAY SEEK MY AID BY MEANS OF THIS PRAYER: HOLY FATHER, TRUE I HAVE BEEN TO THE CODE. GREAT IS MY NEED AS I SEEK A RIGHTEOUS GOAL. BLESS ME WITH YOUR GIFT IF YOU FIND ME WORTHY.”

  Farrell silently repeated the prayer several times. Khron said nothing until Farrell looked up.

  “KNOW THAT ONLY THOSE WORTHY OF AID WILL RECEIVE AN ANSWER TO THEIR PRAYER. AID WILL ONLY BE GIVEN FOR SPECIFIC TASKS AND WILL NOT LINGER BEYOND THE LIMITED PURPOSE FOR WHICH IT IS GIVEN. REMIND ALL WHO SEEK MY AID, THE ARM WILL ONLY ENHANCE WHAT THEY ALREADY POSSESS, AND NOTHING WILL SUPPLANT TRAINING AND PRACTICE.

  “GO FORTH WITH MY BLESSINGS.”

  The avatar disappeared with a flash.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THE SETTING sun barely peeked over the wall of the villa, hitting Farrell in the eye. The breakfast invitation from Penelope and Marisa meant getting up before dawn. Farrell suspected that had he wanted, Miceral would have let him sleep later, but he didn’t test his theory. Besides that, Peter expressed an eagerness to go with them after he’d spent the day with Marisa and their adopted daughter Claire.

  Hovering above the dirt courtyard, Farrell stared at the book in his lap. He’d spent what little free time he’d had during the day looking through Kel’s book for the spell Meglar used to defeat him, and today he’d found it. The simplicity of the magic defied the deadly results. It was too obvious, and yet defending against it eluded most people. Fortunately, now that Farrell knew how to cast the spell, it wouldn’t work on him a second time.

  Not that he expected Meglar to use the same spell again. Despite the common feeling among his mentors that Meglar was a brutish oaf who only won by overpowering his opponents, Farrell didn’t share their assessment of his father. Meglar might lack the creative genius of Kel, but that didn’t make him stupid.

  Satisfied he’d learned all he needed about the spell, he turned the page. From the corner of his eye, he noted the others enter the enclosed courtyard.

  “Why can’t he use a chair like normal people?” Penelope’s words matched the cool reception he’d gotten since they arrived.

  He looked up, and she glared at him for an instant before storming off. After a moment of watching her back, he turned toward Marisa, who stood with Miceral near the door.

  “Why is she so vexed with me?” He wished he’d stayed at the palace. “Why did you invite me to stay with you if she planned to act like this? Ice is warmer than she’s been today.”

  “You took Markus to Haven.”

  “By the Six.” Farrell stopped himself from saying anything worse. How could she be jealous of Markus’s brief visit?

  “He invited himself, actually.” Miceral rubbed Farrell’s back gently. “It would have been insulting to refuse.”

  “I know.” She shook her head. “I’ll speak to her. Markus will be here soon, and it won’t do for her to act like that toward you or him.”

  “If she wanted to go to Haven, why didn’t she ask?” Nerti rested in the shade with Klissmor and Rothdin. They’d been so quiet, Farrell almost forgot about them. “You did well not to say more. Marisa is a practical woman, but she wouldn’t have taken kindly to you disparaging her mate.”

  “Thank you. That’s why I held my tongue.”

  “You may not have spoken your thoughts, but Nerti and I heard them quite clearly.” Rothdin’s booming voice had a hint of humor. “I, too, am pleased you did not voice so unflattering an opinion of our host.”

  Peter entered the courtyard, led by a young woman about his age. She had long blonde hair and delicate yet striking features. While she had Penelope’s height and lean frame, she looked nothing like either mother.

  Marisa motioned for the pair to come closer. “Prince Farrell, may I present our daughter, Claire.”

  “Good morning, Your Majesty.” She bowed properly, if a tad quick. “May Peter and I go into the city?”

  “Claire!” Marisa barked her daughter’s name as though she addressed an out-of-line soldier. The young woman snapped to attention. “That is not how you were taught. Your bow was barely adequate, and you compounded your insult by ignoring Prince Farrell before he could return your greeting.”

  Farrell stepped down, ready to brush off the perceived slight, when Miceral squeezed his shoulder gently.

  “Don’t interfere with how Marisa parents her daughter. It’s not okay with her mother for Claire to be so informal toward you.”

  “How’d—?”

  Miceral released his grip. “I know you. Just let her apologize and be nice.”

  “Prince Farrell.” Claire, her cheeks bright red, bowed her head. “My apologies for being so rude. I mistook . . . I was out of line.”

  “Apology accepted.” When she looked up, he winked at her with the eye her mother couldn’t see. “No offense taken. It took many such lectures when I was your age before I learned.”

  “Let’s hope she doesn’t require as many as you, Prince Farrell.” Marisa didn’t smile at his attempt at humor. “And no, you cannot go into the city. The king will be here soon, and you two need to stay.”

  “But I want to show Peter—” She stopped when Marisa glared at her. “Yes, Mother.”

  Farrell was about to say Peter couldn’t go either, but the loud peal of a gong reverberated throughout the house.

  “By the Six!” Marisa swore. “I told her to turn it down, not up!”

  “What was that?” Miceral turned to Farrell, who shook his head.

  “That’s Markus asking permission to come through our Door.” Marisa scanned her daughter, then Peter. “You two need to change. This is dinner with the king, not a party at one of the inns you visit when you think I’m not paying attention.”

  Peter looked at Farrell and Miceral, but before he could speak, Marisa said to his one-time guards. “You both could also use a change.”

  Farrell opened his mouth to protest that Markus wouldn’t care, but something in his host’s eye told him to keep quiet. “We’ll go change right now.”

  He and Miceral corralled the two younger recipients of Marisa’s critical eye and headed toward their room. Miceral looked amused but kept his comments to himself.

  After changing into a clean tunic and pants, Farrell added a leather belt with a few precious gems, which he only wore during formal appearances. But when it came to a crown, he refused. Dinner at the palace might require he wear it, but they chose Penelope and Marisa’s house specifically to avoid formal state events.

  They arrived in the sitting room before Claire and Peter. Farrell smiled at their passive-aggressive behavior. The trick for the teens would be not to cross the line by taking too long and angering the Lady Marisa even further.

  Markus sat with his wife, Dehlia, and their two young children. Markus held a small stuffed lion and roared softly as he brought the toy closer to his daughter. She giggled and tried to grab the animal before the king pulled it away. His son, who looked a couple of years older—maybe seven or eight—stood up along with the queen when Farrell and Miceral entered the room. Markus remained seated but smiled at them.

  “I see Marisa made you change, much as my dear wife admonished me to clean up.” He brought the lion closer again and let his daughter grab it this t
ime. Content, the princess hopped off his leg and went to her mother’s side.

  Peter and Claire arrived in time for Marisa to introduce Belsport’s heir to the queen. To accommodate Rothdin, Nerti, and Klissmor, Marisa had dinner served outside. The peregrine politely declined anything, preferring to eat later when he could hunt.

  In the quiet of the formal garden, they had a pleasant meal. At one point, Prince Hevnor asked to meet Farrell’s adopted father and the unicorns. Farrell escorted the young prince and watched as the three nonhumans took turns speaking to Dumbarten’s heir.

  When dessert arrived, Miceral and Markus discussed military tactics interspersed with personal combat maneuvers. A reluctant Hevnor let his mother drag him away, and not even dessert could erase his pout.

  “Someone told me you enjoy coffee as much as I do, my lord.” Marisa pointed toward the small table where cups sat next to a silver ewer with steam coming from the top. “We here in Dreth are known for the quality of our beans, so I think you’ll be pleased.”

  “I would like some black coffee, too,” Markus said, “and some private time with Farrell.”

  Farrell nodded, made his way to the table, and poured two mugs of coffee. Without turning away from the table, he reached out to Miceral.

  “Did he give you any hint what he wants?”

  “Not at all. We were discussing battle tactics when he looked up.”

  “Penelope has a safe room in the villa.” Markus motioned toward the open door and didn’t wait for Farrell to follow before he started to walk. “Penelope and I spoke earlier, and she and Miceral will join us after we’ve had a chance to speak first.”

  “This must be sensitive.”

  Markus shook his head. “Not really, but I’d prefer to speak freely and not wonder if anyone is using a listening spell or scrying our conversation.”

  Farrell kept such protections around himself that would detect anything, but he kept quiet and followed the king. They stopped before an unremarkable door with no handle or knob. Markus pulled out a small golden key and moved it closer to the wood. A keyhole appeared when the metal touched the door, and Markus used it to let them into the small room. Farrell felt the protection enclosing the space. Eight chairs surrounded a square oak table set with a pitcher of water and cups. Several more seats lined the wall.