by David Debord
As he approached the staircase, he noticed that the dust on the floor was disturbed and, on the first step, he spotted a boot print. He looked around more carefully now and spotted dangling cobwebs torn by someone passing this way recently. The realization both comforted and worried him. The knowledge that others used this passageway made it seem less forbidding, but it also raised the possibility that he might bump into someone. He supposed if he heard footsteps, he’d snuff out his light and run, and hope he didn’t break his neck on the way down the stairs. Heart racing, he took a deep breath and mounted the stairs.
The climb through the dark seemed endless, with the steep staircase making the occasional turn, which told him the passageway likely ran along the outer walls of the archives. Based on how long he’d walked, he figured the stairway led to the top floor. That was fine with him, as it would place him far away from Keeper Corwine’s quarters.
He paused at a landing, leaned against the wall, and struggled to catch his breath. He was exhausted from today’s double measure of combat training, and his bruised body screamed in protest. If he had to climb much further, he might just sleep here tonight. The thought reminded him of all the times Mistress Faun had chided him for laziness, and the memory brought a smile to his face. Grinning, he moved on.
Beyond the landing, the stairs rose in a wide spiral. This must be the tower that topped the archives building. At long last, the staircase ended. Panting, his damp hair hanging in his eyes, he staggered over to the door that lay in front of him, turned the knob, and pushed. When it didn’t budge, he threw his shoulder into it, and it banged open.
A light breeze chilled his sweat-soaked body. Pinpricks of light danced before his eyes, and a dizzying sensation of extreme height washed over him.
All these things registered in the split second before his feet went out from under him and he fell toward the gaping darkness below.
Chapter 14
“I don’t know what to do.” Pedric Karst took a sip of wine and winced at its bitterness. He glanced across the table to where Jakom sat, his eyes cloudy and thoughts seemingly far away, and then looked around the common room of the newly-constructed inn. A musician sat in the corner, plucking at his lute with an air of disinterest. He looked familiar, with his puffy, black hair and weathered cheeks, but Karst couldn’t place him. There weren’t many new arrivals in Salgo, at least, not yet, but once things settled down, his city would draw travelers from Diyonus, Galdora, Lothan, and Cardith. The problem was, he doubted things would settle down until he dealt with the temple. Perhaps the king shouldn’t be seen in a common room, but more and more he was coming to realize it was an empty title. The temple wielded the real power. “Whenever I come near the temple, I feel...” He couldn’t finish the thought.
“Overwhelmed?” Jakom scratched his chin and looked down at his own, untouched cup of wine. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. It was as if some force was trying to... not exactly take over my mind, but dominate it.”
Karst nodded. On his first visit to the temple, he’d scarcely been able to make his retreat once he felt the force of will emanating from the thing floating above the altar. Now, the power had grown stronger, so much so that he couldn’t come within shouting distance of the place without experiencing the strong urge to fall to his knees and abase himself. The experience had been so powerful and upsetting that he had not been able to bring himself to talk about it until now.
“What do you think it is?” he whispered.
The look in Jakom’s eyes made it clear they both knew to what Karst was referring.
“I can’t say for certain. It was as if the thing were forcing my eyes away when I tried to look at it. But it seemed to be human in shape though larger than a man.” Now, Jakom attended to his wine, raising it to his lips with a trembling hand and draining it in three hearty gulps.
“Parts of it were transparent, and others more solid, as if it were not yet fully-formed.” Karst shuddered at the thought. It galled him to admit his fear and confusion, but he’d never experienced anything like this. The closest had been when he tried to hold the Silver Serpent. The experience, though only for an instant, had felt much like his visit to the temple— overwhelmed by a power that made him feel tiny by comparison.
“And why the sacrifices? Do you think they’re, I don’t know, feeding people’s souls to that thing?” Jakom winced, then signaled the serving girl for a cup of wine.
As Karst sat in silent contemplation, he began to take notice of the musician’s song.
“...a thousand lives I will feed you, a thousand souls shall bleed for you, the god of...”
“You!” he snapped. “Come here!”
Nonplussed, the musician set his lute back in its case and approached Karst. He wore a red and yellow cloak and his chin whiskers were twisted into a hands-length braid. His weathered face was somehow familiar.
“What is your name?”
“Skedane. Sandrin Skedane.” His tone was respectful, but there was a twinkle in his eye that Karst didn’t care for.
“You will address me as ‘Your Majesty.’ Now, where do I know you from?”
“Galdora, my lord.” Skedane hesitated. “You could say I rescued your neck from the headsman’s axe.”
Now Karst remembered. The man had wrestled him away from Shanis Malan before Karst could run her through. “What happened to your fancy cloak, Master Skedane?”
“It’s in my bag, Majesty. Not proper for a simple common room.”
“Yet you wore it with pride in Galsbur, a farm town.”
“The prince was there, and I hoped to gain his notice. I’ve played in many a noble house, but never a palace.” Skedane made a wry smile. “As you can see, I was unsuccessful.”
“And you came to Salgo to witness the birth of a new city, a new nation, and tell our story? Perhaps you hoped to gain my notice?” Karst poured all the sarcasm he could muster into his words.
“I won’t claim that was my plan when I passed this way. I was headed to Diyonus, but when I learned what you have planned here, the idea captivated me. Carving out a chunk of land and forming your own nation is ambitious.”
“And you’ll compose a song about me? Perhaps write my story?”
Across the table, Jakom snickered.
“If you’ll forgive me, your Highness, whether you end up the most powerful ruler in Gameryah or a martyr with your head on a spike, it will make for a gripping tale.”
Karst tensed. His palm itched and he almost reached for his sword, but he calmed himself. A good leader didn’t lose control at a few words. He needed to maintain a more controlled and dignified air.
“I’m glad to hear you would find my death entertaining.”
“Forgive me, that isn’t what I meant. Every nation has its history: its heroes and martyrs, its institutions, its gods...”
Karst cut off Skedane’s words with a wave of his hand. He had just remembered why the man had gained his notice. “Tell me about the song you were just singing.”
“It is from the Ragar Saga. He was a Halvalan king of old who raised a god to do his bidding. I overheard snatches of your conversation, and that particular song sprang to mind.”
A chill ran through Karst and he could not find his voice. To cover his hesitation, he motioned for Skedane to sit down.
“What do you mean, he raised a god?” Jakom asked before Karst could recover his wits.
“Ragar was a weak king, so he attempted to raise a god in order to gain power over the warring factions in his kingdom.”
“What was it about our conversation that reminded you of this story?” Karst took another sip of wine and steeled himself for the answer.
“Several things: the way the god gradually gained strength, the way its presence overwhelmed those who came near, and, of course, the sacrifices.”
“How does one raise a god? Is such a thing even possible?” Karst’s voice was a whip crack, making Skedane flinch.
“I am no expert
, but I have learned a few things over the years. A god draws its power from its worshipers. The number of worshipers, the frequency and intensity of said worship, the depth of belief, and the sacrifices made in its name.” He cleared his throat and cast a look of longing at Karst’s wine, but Karst wasn’t feeling magnanimous at the moment.
“I suppose a human sacrifice would be more powerful than other sorts?” He knew some commoners would sacrifice animals or a portion of their crops, but nobles merely gave coin to the priest, who would then make a symbolic sacrifice of a chunk of meat.
“Indeed, Majesty. That, according to the songs, is the most powerful magic there is.”
Karst looked to Jakom and could see they were thinking the same thing.
“I need to see Malaithus right now.”
He still felt the dark presence as he approached the temple, but his anger shielded him from the worst of its effects. He demanded, and received, an escort to the High Priest’s chambers. Reaching them, he hammered on the door before he could be announced.
“Malaithus! I want to talk to you!”
The door opened a crack.
“Your Majesty, it is late to be calling.” Malaithus peered out of the door with a bemused expression on his face. His eyes, dull with weariness, sharpened when Karst stepped into the light. “What is amiss?”
“You tell me.” Karst brushed past the sorcerer and closed the door behind him, leaving a nervous-looking Jakom outside.
“I don’t understand. Have I given offense in some way?” Malaithus cast a wary glance to Karst’s belt, where Karst’s hand rested on his dagger. Malaithus was a sorcerer, but he was as susceptible as any man to a knife in the heart, and he knew Karst’s temper well. He moved toward the table in the middle of the room, but Karst blocked his path, keeping the two at close quarters.
“You aren’t just worshiping a god; you’re trying to raise him, aren’t you?” Karst slid the dagger a few inches out of its sheath, ready to strike should Malaithus give even the slightest hint of summoning power.
Malaithus exhaled, and the tension visibly drained from his body. “I wanted to tell you, but your father made me swear to keep it to myself until he decided to tell you himself.”
“I found out on my own, so your conscience is clear. Now, tell me everything. Understand, my patience is wearing thin.”
Malaithus took a second look at the dagger and seemed to make up his mind. “It is true. Our new nation is small and surrounded by enemies. We’ve made a good start, but when their war with Kyrin ends, Galdora will seek to bring Kurnsbur back into the fold, and who knows what the Malan girl will do? Your father believes raising a god to be our sovereign will give us the power we need to preserve our independence, and even expand our power.”
Karst fell silent. It was hard to believe, but he’d seen and felt the evidence for himself.
“Even if he succeeds, the other nations have gods. What difference will it make if we have one too?”
“Gods come and go. Have you heard of Lellor? Antua?” Malaithus seemed to be regaining some of his confidence and, when Karst shook his head, went on. “They are gods from history who are now gone. Their worshipers lost their zeal and eventually died away. That seems to be what is happening with the Seven. They once touched the world directly, and their conflicts nearly tore us apart.”
“The Godwars,” Karst whispered.
“Exactly. But where are they now? They have been absent for so long that, even those who keep the faith begin to view them as mythological.” Malaithus, apparently no longer fearing for his life, sat down at the table and Karst joined him a moment later.
“Do you truly think they are gone?”
“Perhaps not gone entirely, but diminished. Magic draws its power from the gods and, if the histories are at all accurate, magicians today cannot begin to approach the wonders that were done in the time of the Godwars and before.”
Karst finally freed his dagger and spun it absently on the tabletop as he considered Malaithus’ words. He’d heard this all before. “Didn’t you tell me that your magic was becoming stronger?”
“It seems to be,” Malaithus agreed, “but only by a fraction. My best guess is that the power is derived from the emergence of our new god.”
“I was told that gods in turn draw their power from their worshipers. With our small numbers, how can we hope to match even the meager presence of the seven?”
“There is more to it than sheer numbers. The worship of one true believer is worth more than the rote prayers of a hundred casual followers.” A pensive silence hung between them as Malaithus shifted in his seat and rubbed his face. “And then, there are the sacrifices.” Karst scowled and Malaithus hurried on. “Understand, we are careful who we choose.”
“Like children?” Truthfully, Karst didn’t care about the children of some filthy Malgog, but he wanted to keep Malaithus off-balance. Already, he was feeling the rising god’s presence, and he focused on his anger to try and shut it out.
“Only those who are dying anyway, from fevers or injuries and such. The same with the adults, as well as some who speak too loudly against you.”
“I suppose you expect me to believe you are supporting me.” Karst tried to force a laugh, but only managed a huff of breath.
“I don’t expect you to believe me, but it is the truth, all the same.”
“When you and the temple have held yourself above me all this time?” Karst was on his feet, his dagger trembling in his vise grip.
“Your Majesty, we are shaping a tool for your use, nothing more, and nothing less. We have been about our work.” Rising, Malaithus placed his hands palms-down on the table and leaned closer. “I have not included you because I did not wish to create friction between you and your father, but know that the temple is yours.”
Karst wanted to believe but clung to his ever-eroding skepticism. “How can I believe you?”
“Now that you know the truth, come to the temple and take part in worship. We are raising the god of the nation you lead. Think of the power you will wield when you harness his might. You could drive out the remnants of the Black Mangrove clan and give our new nation the access to the sea that we so crave.”
Karst nodded. It made sense. Or was it the god’s overwhelming presence breaking down his resolve as his anger ebbed?
“The temple is yours,” Malaithus repeated. “All that remains is for you to accept our god as your own.”
He reached out a hand. Perhaps by his own choice, perhaps compelled, Karst took it.
Chapter 15
Oskar shouted out in surprise as he slid down the steep roof. The world seemed to slow around him and the dark emptiness beyond the roof’s edge appeared to grow larger, like a beast opening its gaping maw. He flipped over onto his stomach and scrabbled for a handhold, but could not find his grip. The roof tiles were slick and, for an instant, he wondered if it had rained in the brief time he had spent climbing the steps.
His mind immediately returned to the present. He was slowing a little though he couldn’t completely arrest his fall. He pressed down hard with his feet and, for a moment, his toes gained purchase, but then the roof tile broke away and he began to descend again.
“Help!” No one was around to hear his cry, but it seemed the thing to do. A sharp pain lanced through his arm and something yanked him to a halt, the tips of his toes hanging over the edge. He looked up and saw that the sleeve of his cloak had caught on a nail head. The fabric was stretched to the tearing point and he realized with sickening certainty that it was all that lay between him and certain death.
Heart pounding, he reached across with his other hand and worked a fingernail behind the head of the nail. He let out a long breath and looked around. It was full dark now, with only a faint glow from the cloud-draped moon by which to see. To his right, there was nothing. A few feet to his left, however, just below the edge of the roof, a stone gargoyle leered down at the city. But could he make his way over to it? Carefully, he shifte
d his leg, and for a stomach-churning instant, he slid downward a few inches.
“I’ve got to get over there,” he panted. “I can’t cling to this nail for the rest of my life.”
“So give me your hand and I’ll help you.”
The voice startled him so much that he jerked and lost his tenuous grip on the nail head. With a ragged ripping sound, his robe tore free. He cried out in alarm, but almost as soon as he began to slide again, someone grabbed him by the wrist. His rescuer’s hand was small and didn’t quite encircle his wrist, but the grip was strong.
“I can’t do this by myself.” The strain was evident in every word. “You’ve got to climb over to the gargoyle.”
Dizzy from near panic, Oskar put everything he had into the effort, all the while wondering when he’d feel the falling sensation that would precede his death. Finally, his foot lodged against something solid: the gargoyle. With this foothold supporting his weight, he was able to crawl up onto the roof where he sat panting like a winded dog.
“So, how did you manage to fall? The roof isn’t that steep.”
Now, free from the fear of death, he realized his rescuer was a girl. She had raven hair, and milky skin that seemed to shine in the moonlight. The tight, dark clothing she wore failed to hide her curves, and he had to force himself not to stare.
“You’re a girl.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got a problem with a girl saving your life. Did it somehow offend your manhood?” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down with a touch of disapproval in her blue eyes.
His eyes flitted to the dagger on her belt, then back to her eyes, and he laughed.
“I don’t see what’s funny.” Her hand slipped to the hilt of her dagger.
“Nothing, it’s just that you remind me of a friend of mine. She’s perhaps the best I’ve ever known with a sword.”
