by J D Franx
Only those who have walked the darkest of paths can wear it, Kael. Walking from death to life is a path darker than any other. The armor will be yours once you return to the living world.
Jasala had told him several stories about the armor on the night they hid at the bottom of a sweltering hot cave in the ice covered 7th Hell. The darkest path. Knowing he had heard those words before, he shrugged out of his Orotaq cloak and reached inside the deep pocket. He grasped the letter written by Jasala that he had found it when he first arrived at the Black Arc so long ago. His heart hammered as he touched the second letter—the one he had never been able to read. Taking a deep breath, he opened the first and read it, again:
To the next of my line…
Faithfully, Jasala Vyshaan,
The wisdom herein is reserved for the darkest of wizards only, those who have acquired the power to walk the blackest of paths. I cannot tell you what it says for I have never acquired such power for myself, though not for lack of trying. If you have found this letter, it means that I failed, and my purpose is now yours.
This tower is known as the Black Arc. It, and all that it contains, are now yours as well. But beware: It holds many secrets. Some will be many years beyond your abilities regardless of your age and experience, it is my creation, and it still holds many mysteries even to me. The enchantment on this letter will let you know when you have attained the power required to master all, including the Arc. Always keep it close to the death-flower over your heart. Only then can it speak to you. Be careful. This world has grown to hate our kind. Do not let anything from this tower fall into the hands of our enemies, please. And remember, above all, even if it means giving your life, the locks must never be allowed to weaken again.
Kael shook his head. The letter held so much more meaning now that he understood it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t understand, Jasala,” he muttered, knowing from experience that she could likely hear him. “Two of the locks are broken. The Ri’Tek are out. All I can do is hunt them and kill them one at a time.” He cleared the memories before the uncontrollable magic pulled him in and glanced down as he held the second letter to his heart where his deathflower used to be. It did not matter how many times he remembered that the tattoo markings had transformed from a deathflower into the Tree of Life, it still surprised him when he saw it. Magic rushed through his mind as the powerful enchantment on the letter activated. Strange letters and symbols rolled through his consciousness but lasted only seconds before fading. Opening the letter, his eyes quickly adjusted to the transformed letters and marks. He could read it as if it had been written in English—as if he’d spoken the strange language his entire life.
“Incredible,” he whispered. He started to read:
I know not where this missive will end up, but with some luck and guidance from the gods, perhaps these last words will someday reach one of my kind. Someone who has acquired the power needed to successfully complete the experiment we began.
We tried... all six of us tried to gain the power to walk from death with the magic of the old gods in our hands, but we failed time and again.
It seems the process begins when our magic and markings grow. We have concluded that only when the tattoo-like designs have stopped growing will we be ready for the transition. However, we will not proceed further at this time. Venturing further means dying and none of our markings are close enough. Though only my arms and face remain clear of the vines, our experiences have shown it could still be decades or more before the vines are complete.
Saving the Lesser Races from extermination is more important now and all our focus is there. There are six of us that have reached beyond our twentieth year of life without falling to the vile corruption that marks our souls. We six have created a way to imprison the Ri’Tek for what we hope will be several decades. By using the dimensional magic, I discovered some time ago, myself and my fellow wizards will use it to open six doorways to a place we have been calling the Still dimension. It is a place that has a stasis effect on all living material. The Fae and the Dragons have created a powerful attraction spell that will pull all the Ri’Tek armies into the Still dimension by force once the doorways are opened. The coalition armies will deal with the few remaining enemies that may be left afterward. The Fae are extremely upset about opening six doorways to one dimension, especially considering three of us have each opened one already, but they can see there is no other way even though such practices are against their fundamental beliefs.
The Six, as we have become known, will use our life force and the energy from our souls to lock the doorways behind the enemy. Hopefully, it will give the Lesser races enough time to find a permanent solution or perhaps, even a way to make a lasting peace with the Ri’Tek. The locks will eventually weaken as our soul energy dissipates and we cease to exist. It is a small price to pay to save the races of Talohna from extinction, even if only for a time.
When the locks weaken, and they will, a Guardian may instruct one of our kind on how to strengthen them by using their own soul to create a Sepulchre locking system. It will buy a little more time, but it is not a solution. My people were not created as sacrifices to keep the Ri’Tek locked away. A permanent solution must be found.
The power of the old gods is the only answer we can come up with. Which leads us back to the study of our powers: to walk from the realm of death and somehow bring with you the magic of the old gods. If you can achieve this, only the Lost can teach you to use the magic you bring back. Find them and pray to the old gods and the new that the pacifist purists will help you. Because no one else can.
Asa N’ahai
Kael stared at the letter as emotions crashed through him. The one man who could have helped him find the Lost was already long gone. He shook his head at his own bad luck and hoped Dravik could find them. Quickly realizing the barman from north of the Black Kasym, Donovan, could be right, he shook his head, again. The magic of the old gods… it worried him.
The letter fell from Kael’s shaking fingers. Looking to his hand, he called forth the strange magic he had brought back with him from the afterlife. A silver and purple ore formed in his hand, but as if sentient, it immediately lashed out at him. Just as it did the first time, it tried to attack the nearest target. Kael snuffed the magic and frowned. He would eventually have to go back north of the Kasym and find the Lost if he wanted answers… that worried him.
Rolling his shoulders, Kael got to his feet and winced from his wounds. Answers could wait until after he examined the armor hidden in the armoire. Tired of waiting, he touched the armoire’s wooden door. This time, the intricate designs reacted to his magic. The vines moved with a life all their own. Coiling and slithering, the vines slid out of the way, and the lock clacked. The doors slowly opened on their own. The full armor set hung untouched on the back wall. The black chainmail and leather armor stared back at him as if daring him to touch it.
Nervous?
“No,” he whispered. Akai had been uncharacteristically quiet for weeks since their return to Talohna.
I may not have been created by the Dwarven people, but this armor clearly was, and it was made for your kind. You needn’t fear it.
“Needn’t?” Kael snorted quietly. “You sound more like me every day.”
Yeah. Magical side effect of the Ether’s power in the living world as it bleeds through you into me.
“Great. Another conscience. Just what I needed.”
Akai scoffed. Don’t flatter yourself. Your influence isn’t that strong. He felt the spirit’s presence slip away and knew he would say no more.
Taking a deep breath, Kael entered the armoire, going to the armor. The spells engraved within the links of chainmail sparkled as the light hit them. Silver vines identical to his own shone lightly along the leather’s surface. A compulsion pulled at his soul and created an intense desire to possess the armor. Without thinking, he reached out and touched the chainmail links. Unlike last time, however, nothing happened. He chu
ckled to himself and closed the armoire door behind him.
The sleeveless chainmail and leather cuirass slipped over his shoulders, fitting perfectly as he buckled the straps together to secure it. Kael took the armored pants from the hook and quickly learned they were made from two sets of heavy leather sown together with light chainmail woven inside. Additional chainmail reinforced any weak points around the inner and outer thighs, knees, and even the shins. Surprisingly, though, they weighed very little. After removing his own worn out leather pants, he pulled the armor on. Again, it fit perfectly as if tailored specifically for him. He slid his feet into the heavy boots and buckled them before he pushed a black leather bracer over his left wrist. He gasped and dropped to a knee as the last bracer settled into place. Pain exploded from the stab wound in his side and forced him flat to the floor.
“Akai?” he moaned. The spirit remained quiet even though Kael could feel him.
“Answer me, you bastard,” Kael hissed through grinding teeth, but again he was answered by silence. With no help from the ancient entity, he rolled onto his back and forced his left hand through the gap in the buckles of the cuirass to feel the wound as the pain slowly faded. “What the hell?” he mumbled. The wound was nearly healed, and in the following minute, the pain vanished. All that remained was a raised welt of scar tissue.
“Ah, shit,” he whispered. “That was a bit too familiar.” Memories of Dasal came storming back to the front of his mind, and he fought to hold them back but failed as he thrashed on his back. The searing agony of a crushed skull flooded his body and mind, and a dark-haired woman’s face appeared above him. “Sephi.” He gasped. He barely managed to recall her name as she pushed his head back and poured a vile acid down his throat. He screamed as the pain tripled.
“Kael! Wake up. What’s wrong with him?” Corleya asked without turning to Alia.
The mercenary shook her head. “Dying. With luck,” she quipped.
Her words broke through Kael’s flashback. He used it to ground himself to reality, and finally, he regained control over his own mind. “Not yet,” he grumbled. “Jesus, I’d hoped these memories would be less intense after coming back.”
“Coming back from where?” Alia asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” he answered when he saw Corleya’s mouth open. Instead of revealing his return from death, the Princess offered him a hand up. He accepted, letting her pull him to his feet. “Thank you,” he said, getting a nod in return. “How long was I out?”
“I am not sure,” Corleya said, looking to Alia.
The woman shrugged and pointed to herself and the Princess. “Slept eight hours,” she offered.
Kael nodded and slowly readjusted his new armor. “Okay.”
“It fits?”
“Yes, Princess,” Kael answered. “Perfectly in fact. Though, it seems to be enchanted with some kind of healing magic.”
Advanced Fae accelerated healing to be exact.
Now you answer, you bastard, Kael said inside his head, not wanting to make Alia and Corleya any more suspicious.
I felt what you felt. Even if I had wanted to, I could not interrupt the magic as the armor bonded to you. As well as it being a Fae enchantment, healing your side was meant as a test of your will.
“Thanks for the warning, asshole.”
You think the Dwarven armor-smiths and Fae enchantresses and whomever else helped make this set would just let anyone wear it? Jesus, Kael. You should know better by now.
Kael shook his head and his mind swarmed with disbelief. “You can drop the act. You already told me my influence isn’t that strong. No one likes to argue with themselves.”
Then don’t, Einstein.
“Now you’re just being an ass.”
Different from an asshole, is it? Moving up in the world. Akai laughed and went silent as Kael felt his presence retreat.
“Gotta have the last word, huh? Worse than being bloody married,” he said, knowing the spirit could still hear him.
“Kael?” Corleya prompted, bringing him back.
“Careful, Princess,” Alia said. The mercenary pulled her to the side and drew a small dagger.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“You were not a minute ago,” Corleya suggested. He could see the worry in her eyes.
“Sorry, Princess. Just adjusting to the healing magic in the armor.”
Alia spat on the floor.
“Healing,” Corleya let out. “Did the armor heal your side?”
“Yes.”
“Then, we can go home,” Corleya said, smiling with excitement. “You can jump us back, right into my father’s throne room. We can go now.”
Kael shook his head and was shocked when Alia nodded her agreement to his response.
“No,” the mercenary said. “We cannot.”
Corleya whirled and frowned at her lady-in-waiting. “Why not? Cethos is probably in the middle of a civil war by now, and I can put a stop to it.”
Kael sighed. “We need to get some information first,” he said. “Find out who’s actually in control of Corynth.”
“I agree,” Alia said. “Walking into the throne room may get us killed.”
“But,” Corleya protested, “the guards will still be loyal to me even if something has happened.”
Kael scoffed, and it earned him a dirty stare from Alia, but he continued anyway. “You cannot know that, Princess. The fact that a rebellion began means that someone coveted your father’s throne and enough people supported it. In open rebellion, murdering the Princess and rightful heir would not be beyond the realm of possibility.”
“He is right, Princess,” Alia stated. “We need to determine what has happened before we move. I suggest we jump to Sora’s. The Hideaway Tavern is just inside the walls of GutterTown. We can gather information there for cheap.”
“Good idea. If you can give me a detailed enough image so I know where we have to jump to,” Kael said. “It will be easier than entering through the gates, and I’m not comfortable making two jumps so close to Corynth. Your father’s wizard or the Council could detect the one jump we will have to make. I have a few silver coins, but my gold is from north of the Kasym and will only draw the guards down on us, so a slum area will be best.”
“Agreed,” Alia said.
“But first, you two need better weapons,” Kael stated. “There’s an armory in this tower. What kind of weapons do you prefer?”
“Show us,” Alia demanded.
“No,” Kael said. “To get there I must pass through a room. I won’t betray a friend by allowing you in there.”
“I have my whips,” Alia said. “I need nothing more.”
“Corleya?” he asked.
“I lost my whips when our ship went down,” the Princess began.
“I doubt there are braided whips in the armory here.”
The Princess looked to Alia. “The weaver who lives outside of the walls. Perhaps she can make a set, if not I can pick up a sword.”
Kael nodded. “I’ll bring two from the armory and carry them. Pack the few things you have, and we’ll jump as soon as I get back. Don’t forget. I’ll need a description of that inn—somewhere nearby where we’ll not be seen arriving.”
“I know a place behind the tavern.”
“Good,” Kael said, nodding as he turned to leave. “Be ready and make sure neither of you will be recognizable to the public or guards. We’ll be done before we start if you are.”
Chapter Eighteen
“For thousands of years citizens across Talohna have prayed, dreamed, and hoped that one day the Ancients would return. As an historian, I understand better than most people how time can twist and distort the true events of the past into something far different than the reality of what took place. I believe proof is required before we blindly believe what history has laid before us. Having lost so much of that history during the Cataclysm, to meekly follow what has become known as our true past may be the biggest mistake the people of Talohna can
ever make. Only cattle and sheep willingly follow their own kind to the slaughter while the wolves herd them from behind.”
Salabriel Aranasse,
Stillwater dig journal entry, 5026
SORA’S HIDEAWAY TAVERN
GUTTERTOWN, CORYNTH
The little girl crashed into the clay chamber pots in the alley behind Sora's Hideaway Tavern and landed in a heap. Struggling to lift herself from the razor-sharp pieces, twelve-year-old Kenna gasped as yet another blow slammed into the underside of her petite body. The force of the vicious kick lifted her from the broken pots and sent her spinning into the oak barrels of lining the alley's far side. Unlike the chamber pots, the whiskey barrels did not shatter, and Kenna's body crunched against the wood. Her fingers scrambled in the dust and red sparks ground out in the dirt and faded. She did not move.
"Please, Sonny! Stop! Here!" A small boy, no older than ten, jumped to Kenna's defense. Holding up a small bag of jingling coins, he offered them to the older boy. "Here, Sonny. It's everything she got from the marketplace. Every copper and the silver. I promise. It's all there. Please, stop hurting her."
Sonny Talo, the great-grandson of Talohna's most powerful criminal mastermind, stared down at Tanner. "That's all of it? You're not lying, are you, ya little shit?"
"That's all of it, Sonny. I swear. Please, she can't pay your dues if she's dead." The sneaky backhand caught Tanner up the flat side of his head and the smack rang his ears ring like a temple bell.
“I am not going to tell you two to stay out of the marketplace, again. You can panhandle in TinkerTown or GutterTown or steal from the barracks if you're good enough not to get caught." Sonny's voice climbed with anger. It was an anger every street kid knew first hand. "But you will stay out of MarketTown completely. I catch you begging or picking pockets in the marketplace, again, you will both lose your right hands. Is that clear, Shitter?" Tanner winced at the nickname but nodded in agreement.