Across from Saalkain, closer to the king, sat two generals of the dwarven army. One was a brown-haired and heavily bearded dwarf. He wore heavy plate armor, and a bulky war hammer sat on its head next to his chair.
The other general was a dwarf female of the Scarian berserker-maidens. Her armor was not like the male dwarven warriors’. The berserker-maidens were clothed in leather armor with metal plating covering only vital organs or weak points. The maidens valued maneuverability and speed over full plating like the male warriors. Dual single-handed battle axes were held at her waist by a leather belt. A round shield, no wider than her shoulders, was strapped to her back. Her thick red hair was braided tightly.
The generals were in deep discussion of reports, fortifications, and troop readiness.
“Lyvnevar, report,” Baskla commanded.
The cavalry general slid a parchment before Baskla. “The full division has arrived. Eleven thousand nine hundred and seventy-two horsemen. Equal number in equine heads. The horses receive adequate feed. The farriers have repaired all damaged horseshoes and saddles. The smithies are still repairing the division’s damaged armor and weapons. The division’s soldiers will receive two days’ rest, then constant training and sparring will begin to keep them sharp for any future battles.”
“Good. Nilver, report,” Baskla commanded.
Nilver slid a parchment before Baskla. “The Wall Corp readiness is exceptional. Response times to the walls and trees has dropped to seventeen seconds—”
“Make it ten,” Baskla said.
“Yes, General,” Nilver said, then continued, “The Wall Corp numbers thirty thousand four hundred and thirty-one, consisting of twenty-five thousand archers; two thousand ballistae men; and three thousand oil fillers, quiver restockers, ballistae bolt carriers, gate bearers, and fire spreaders. The last four hundred and thirty-one corpsmen are the Royal Guard defending the castle.
“Every archer receives range practice every other day in shifts. One day on the wall, one day on range. Ballistae load-and-fire practice occurs daily. The remaining defensemen and restockers practice daily.”
“Good. Armor, weapons?” Baskla questioned.
“Armor and weapons are in good shape. Broken bows are restrung and repaired immediately by the fletchers.”
“Cernog, report on the dwarven army,” Baskla said.
“Close to seven thousand dwarfs were stationed at each town surrounding the Scar. Twenty thousand have made it to Lesley. The remaining eight thousand travel with Kvaran and the last of the dwarven women and children. They should be on their way by now. Our armor is better than yours. Our weapons are stronger than yours. And our battle readiness remains perfect.”
Baskla raised his head from his parchments and gave a false smile, took a deep breath. “Thank you, Cernog. As always.” A sigh left him. “Reahla, report for the berserker-maidens.”
“The maidens are seventeen thousand; another five thousand accompany Kvaran and will be here soon. The maidens will not train; we are prepared. We will patrol the streets and keep the peace,” Reahla said.
Baskla nodded, and his face tightened slightly. “Thank you, Reahla.”
The grand general sighed as he wrote a bit on the main parchment he was handling.
“Bayne, report,” Baskla asked.
The human general sat up and cleared his throat as he became nervous. “After the decimation of Mor, our numbers are small. Four hundred and thirty-four. We are training any willing human that arrives to Lesley from other towns. Not many have come. The towns of Kinwood and Alon have arrived. No one has come from Vira yet, or Nicat. There have been a few random families that claim no town as their home. They were separated in their own hovels beyond the settlement borders, though not all of them are . . . right for battle.”
“Understood. Armor and weapons?” Baskla asked.
“We do need assistance in repairing damaged plate and swords,” Bayne said hesitantly, not used to the war meetings yet.
“Take the armor and weapons to our smithies. The king’s treasury will handle the cost. I will have one of my lieutenants send word to the metalworkers,” Baskla said.
The grand general glanced around the room. “Thank you all for the reports. In total, we number ninety-three thousand eight hundred and thirty-seven souls. A formidable number for our defense of Lesley, nothing to scoff at. The refortification of the walls is nearly complete. The masons and engineers have been working tirelessly on shoring up any weaknesses and building new archer towers along the outer wall. Now we must discuss—”
Abruptly, the throne room doors opened with the royal elven guards at their handles. A warrior in black armor walked through the threshold and stole the attention of the room.
She dragged a heavy bag in her left hand that left a trail of a black liquid.
“Alexi!” Baskla exclaimed nervously. “We were not sure if you would answer the call.”
The Blood-Kin Battle Magi walked to the end of the marble table and eyed those in attendance while the throne room doors closed behind her. Her face was hidden by the molten dragon-scale helmet. Her presence was oppressive but calm.
Alexi lifted the bag onto the table, and the flesh inside squished moistly. She paused for a second, then shoved it with force. It slid across the top, and the leather caught on the marble surface, opening the bag and allowing its contents to spill out. Multiple severed demon heads with contorted expressions rolled out of the bag and sprawled across the table’s surface. Black blood streaked along the marble and oozed from their necks.
“W-what is the meaning of this?” Baskla said as he scooted his chair back to dodge one of the demon heads falling in his lap.
Alexi shifted her gaze to Zael, and her voice rose with a deep, magical distortion. “Enlighten me.”
“About the heads on my table?” Zael asked.
Alexi nodded.
“Did you kill them all?” he asked.
She nodded again.
“I would say they were demons,” the king said. “Perhaps you could explain what happened?”
“They attacked the vale. Where do they come from?”
“The First Seal in the Niyere Mountains,” Zael said. “It is too much to explain currently. But know it is a doorway from another realm, and we do not know of a way to close it yet.”
“Did you allow this?” Alexi asked.
“No. We tried to stop it when it was still possible.”
“Have you tried to close it?”
“No. We cannot reach the seal at this time, and it is something we do not know much about,” Zael said.
“Who is responsible?” Her deep voice crescendoed.
“One of their own.”
“How?”
“The Drey’kan summoned it,” the king revealed to her.
Her left hand clenched into a fist, the only visible sign of her anger.
Those at the table remained silent. Other than Zael, Baskla was the only one who had dealt with her before, and the others were not eager to start.
Her distorted voice became condescending. “I assume you sent a small, inadequate force to prevent this . . . and you failed.” She abruptly slammed her fist against the table in a rapid switch of personality. Her gaze shifted to Baskla as her voice grew louder. “And now, you plan to hide behind your walls and defend until you die.”
Baskla stuttered, “F-for now, yes. W-we need to gather information and wait for Caedmon’s return so that we may devise a plan for closing the seal.”
Alexi unsheathed her magenta-gem sword from her back and held it confidently in her left hand. “Naïve. I will be impressed if you even survive until they assault the walls.”
She swung her sword upward and severed the nearest lieutenant’s head on her left. His head rolled to a stop on the table.
“Alexi!” Zael shouted.
But they all paused and watched the severed elf’s head transform into a featureless, black-skinned head. The dead elf’s body shrank into a charre
d, frail form. The lieutenant had been a demon in hiding, a deceiver.
“They hide among your ranks, and you believe you will be safe within your walls. They will make you bleed from within and cripple your army,” Alexi said.
They were all shocked at the new revelation. None of them had known that the demons could hide among them. They all looked at each other and began to question their remaining company’s identity. Everyone hesitated, not knowing what to do.
Alexi glanced at their faces and then to the king. “For now, the rest of you are not deceivers. Though perhaps not for long.”
“H-how did you know?” Baskla asked.
“A faint smell of sulfur will haunt you, though I can see through their veil with my magic.” Her deep, magically distorted voice lingered in the air.
“Saalkain, you could not see this?” Baskla questioned.
“No, the Falcarna do not possess such magic,” Saalkain said with distaste on his tongue. “The Illianar Islands are home to lost tomes of Ikalreev magic. The Falcarna do not create magic; they wield what already exists.”
“How do you suggest we combat this internal threat, Alexi?” Zael asked.
“I do not believe you can. You are unable to discern who or what they are. They will haunt your city, and there is nothing you can do about it, unless you catch them in the act of changing personas,” she said.
“That is unlikely.” Baskla cursed.
“Correct,” Alexi said.
“What if you comb the city for them? Can you root them out?”
“I will not.”
“Why?”
“I must return to the vale. My kin need me,” Alexi said. “As I have said, the demons have begun attacking the vale. Our position is defendable; we have the magic and the dragons. We will survive.”
“So you will just leave us to die?”
“No. I have given you information, but I cannot stay. My own family needs me. You should learn to take care of yours,” she said. “If you devise a plan to close the seal or are at your last defense, then send word to me. I will come. Otherwise, only if the vale becomes safe and the attacks cease will I come to your aid.”
Baskla gave up; he knew he would not convince her to stay. He was unhappy but did his best to hide it. Angering Alexi was not wise.
“I will be going now,” Alexi said, and she turned to leave.
“Wait,” Zael called out. “Your people can defend with us.”
Alexi half turned back toward the king. “We will not forsake the vale or the Terrorgor den.”
Zael lowered his gaze and nodded slightly.
Alexi walked toward the doors again and swung them open. She left the throne room and marched her way out of the keep.
The royal guards shut the throne room doors behind her.
Zael wearily looked at Saalkain. “Do what you can to root out the deceivers. Hopefully Caedmon will return soon.”
Saalkain nodded to the king.
“Please leave me for now. I will summon you all again when I am ready.” The king’s expression was heavy, and he slouched on his throne. “Do all you can to ensure the safety of this city and our peoples.”
There was a unison of “Yes, Your Majesty” and bowing heads as everyone at the table left the throne room. When the doors shut behind them and the king was the only one left, he sighed and leaned on the arm of his chair. He dropped his forehead into his hand.
Their forces were nearing their maximum extent, and their food supplies were being strained. He knew they would not be able to manage their current position for long. His options were thinning, and their struggles were increasing. He wished he had the answers for his people and all who depended on him, but their future slid down a grim path. One that he did not know how to stop or change.
His heart was heavy, and tears began to well in his eyes. He felt dread in his heart because he didn’t know how to stop everyone from dying.
There he sat, in contemplation and a flurry of emotions. Alone and without guidance.
Chapter 11
Mental Status
The ones who have nothing to live for: the beaten, the broken, the faithless—they are the ones who should be feared. They are the ones who have no reason.
The Ikalreev Prophecies 9:1–2
Across the world, in a region not inhabited by mortals for quite some time, there was a great struggle taking place. A war was being waged for a mind and a soul, alone and distant.
There was a small, circular room where the only light was a single, flickering candle. The stone room was fifteen feet in diameter with a heavy iron door to the right of a man who had his arms chained to the wall and his feet chained to the floor. The prisoner was on his knees, chest bowed forward, as his arms stretched backward, pulling against his taut chains. The steel links were the only things keeping the prisoner from collapsing. His black clothes were soaked with old blood, and the cold stone floor around him was stained red. Blood continued to seep from his many old wounds, and the man’s eyes were glazed over, exhausted, and hollow. Unable to produce any more tears, having cried all that he could, he was dehydrated and malnourished.
Blood dripped from his lower lip to a fresh puddle on the ground.
The prisoner felt the floor shake, stop, then shake again. The iron door opened as its hinges wailed. Telfaldetrous ducked under the doorway and walked into the room, its footsteps echoing as heavy thuds on the cold stone. Unsound laughter rolled from the demon as it looked down at the battered and worn mortal.
“Have you changed your mind?” Telfaldetrous asked.
The broken prisoner said nothing as his eyes struggled to lift and meet Telfaldetrous’s.
“No?” Telfaldetrous questioned. “Where is all the fight? All the anger that I saw in you before?” His sinister laugh rolled again.
The beaten man’s eyes rolled down to the floor again; his strength was leaving him; his will had gone. He was mentally beyond the breaking point and was beginning to shatter. The pain and torment he had endured was bending his psyche beyond its limit.
“Join us and the pain will stop.” Telfaldetrous watched for a sign. “I know what you are. I saw it at the seal.”
The prisoner hung in silence; the evil voice sounded distant to him.
“You are a fallen one,” Telfaldetrous said. “A lost soul from on high.”
The beast paused, then continued. “The destruction you could bring upon this world would be unimaginable. Absolute.”
The prisoner closed his eyes and tried to shut out the evil propaganda.
Telfaldetrous did not lose its calm demeanor. “Or I could leave you chained in this room while I destroy all you hold dear. Every person, every city, and even every good memory in your mind.”
Faolan roared to life. His chains rattled violently as he tried to reach the demon, though he could not go an inch farther. He yelled at the top of his lungs, his eyes intense and bloodshot.
Telfaldetrous smiled evilly. “Good. There is the rage, the burning fire within. I will wake you, and you will join me in the end.”
Faolan relaxed and slouched in defeat.
A second, much smaller demon walked into the dungeon. The demon had a goat’s head, two recurved horns, and a humanoid body. It was woolly under its red garments.
“Ah, time for your night terrors, or is it morning?” Telfaldetrous laughed. “It is so hard to tell within these stone walls.”
Telfaldetrous turned to the smaller demon. “Show him again where we come from. Show him what nears.”
Telfaldetrous left the room and shut the door with a heavy boom of metal and stone, leaving the goat demon behind with their prisoner. It placed one of its hands on Faolan’s head and closed its eyes.
In a split second, Faolan’s screams pierced the closed door and ran down the long hallways of the ancient castle. The screams echoed off the castle’s cold walls, reaching into the depths of the massive keep.
What Faolan saw in his waking nightmares was a darkness deeper t
han night, where the only light was a dim red glow from the flames burning the landscape. Creatures of all sizes and horrid shapes crawled across the frightening landscape. Evil beasts attacked him and hurt him in many ways, showing him the pain that they could unleash.
In the distance, Faolan could see monstrosities pacing with vestigial limbs and unsymmetrical forms. He felt pure dread when looking upon those foul creatures, but they kept their distance from him as lesser beasts tortured him.
As the night terrors continued, wounds periodically opened on Faolan’s skin. Whatever he dreamed in his mind was so real that it directly affected him physically. Whatever he felt in the dream, he also felt in reality. Cuts developed across his chest, back, and arms. The stones beneath him were stained red anew. At times in his visions he saw Caedmon, Treasach, Gavina, his parents, Leith, Ireli, and Ehreion. Something awful always happened to them.
This went on for hours and hours.
The next day, the demon lifted its hand off its prisoner’s head and left the room. Faolan was bloody and weak, exhausted from the visions and the pain. The fissures in his mind grew, and he receded further into himself. Memories became harder to remember as his past grew distant and the new nightmares flooded his mind. Faces were becoming harder to remember. His mind grasped onto the fading images of his parents’ faces. He could no longer see the fine details of their skin and eyes.
Not long after the seer left the room, Telfaldetrous reentered.
“The seer has informed me of many things. Important facts it has learned while you were in your night terrors,” Telfaldetrous said.
Faolan’s distant mind was too weak to move his body; unable to speak, he listened to the far-off words.
“Your name is Faolan; at least right now it is.” Telfaldetrous looked for signs of recognition on its prisoner’s face, but none showed through.
“Ages have come and gone since your birth. The reality you know now is far from what you first set your eyes on in the beginning.”
Faolan tried to shut out the words; he did not understand them, and his fatigued mind spun. His unnaturally induced night terrors caused time and space to distort, blending the worlds beyond with his. He eyed the room and wondered if this was really reality, though it was hard to know what reality was anymore. He wondered if he was still alive, and if so, how he had arrived in that room or even where it was in relation to the world he knew.
The First Seal Page 9