Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  The voices were coming from a group of dwarfs clothed in the black robes and red trim of House Glofar. They were trudging away from Riverdale and somewhat towards Devan’s position atop the outcrop. Several carts and wagons pulled by northern mules, their large hooves well suited for the North’s rough terrain, ambled along amongst the caravan. Several of the dwarfs rode upon massive shadow panthers. The agile felines were much better suited to the North’s harsh environs than most horses, save the rare Northern destrier.

  Devan flipped open his chronometre once more, checking that he’d read it correctly. He had, of course. But he couldn’t think of any event in this time that would account for this procession of dwarfs away from Riverdale.

  “What have we gotten ourselves into, Stephan?” he murmured to the chronometre.

  But deviations were to be expected under circumstances such as these. And he wouldn’t find answers standing and staring (or talking to inanimate objects). So he descended towards the dwarfs, sliding down the rocky rise in a controlled fall (and a bit of help from an earth channel). As he reached the bottom, the wind across the plane was arid, leaving a bad taste in his mouth. He chewed at the sour flavor and spat as he strode toward the dwarfs. He’d no doubt his inability to think of an explanation for their presence meant they were the clue for which he was searching.

  A grumble arose from the troupe as they spotted him. Up close they looked dreadful. Many plodded along, heads down, dragging their feet as if they’d no direction except away from whatever they’d left behind at the Dales. And those were the best looking of the lot. Others simply had vacant stares; seemingly the only thing that kept them moving at all was the forward momentum of the group. Even the panthers seemed out of sorts, tails flitting back and forth arrhythmically.

  A stout, broad-chested dwarf emerged from the group as Devan neared. He wore a pair of solar specs strapped across his eyes. A common enough style in the North with the sun’s near-constant glare off the haze. He had waist-length, carrot-colored hair that hung in braids over the front of either shoulder. And unlike the rest of the dwarfs, his robe was red with black trim.

  Devan knew him.

  “High Emissary Keeper Nellis,” Devan spoke with loud familiarity. “What news from the Dales?”

  The dwarf raised a hand above his head, palm outward, halting the group behind him, then tilted it to shield his eyes. He looked Devan up and down. More up, than down.

  “Do I know ye?” Nellis responded in the gruff, abbreviated dialect of the northern dwarfs.

  “No. Well, that’s to say, you’ve never met me. Though I believe you’ll find that you know of me.”

  The dwarf grunted at this, causing his mustaches to flutter in a manner Devan tried to convince himself wasn’t comical. He failed and scratched as his nose to hide the twitch of a smile.

  “Don’t speak in riddles te me. State yer business or out of teh way.”

  This time he couldn’t hide the smile. He’d often read that Nellis Lonemage was a terse one, and Devan derived more than a little pleasure when he saw historical accuracy play out before his eyes. He was just about to unleash a quip that undoubtedly would have had something to do with short dwarfs having even shorter tempers. Before he could respond, however, an agonized howl burst from one of the carts towards the rear of the procession. Several dwarfs exchanged looks shrouded in unmistakably bleak veils of fear. Nellis looked over his shoulder and wiped at the fronts of his robes.

  “Ye really should be going,” he stated, though with less aggression than before.

  “I see—well hear, actually—that you have injured. I’ve no great talent with the light, but I’ve been known to heal a scrape or two in my time. Perhaps I could be of assistance?”

  Truth be told, he really had no interest in helping the injured. But he needed information, and that seemed a natural way to get the dwarfs to drop their skepticism.

  But Nellis’s frown only deepened. He glanced over his shoulder once more, then back at Devan.

  “We’ll ’ave none o’ yer light chann’ling here, stranger. We’ve had more than enough o’ the light this day. Keep yer help to ye’self and be on yer way.” After pausing a moment, he added with a growl, “And if yer so curious ’bout the Dales, go check for ye’self. What’s left of ’em, anyway.”

  Devan frowned. What was left of them? He glanced over Nellis’s shoulder (which is to say, he just looked right over him). The Dales were right there, rooftops piercing the horizon at the dwarfs’ backs. Piercing the horizon... And smoldering. Tendrils of smoke billowed up from the town. His frown deepened. None of this was making sense.

  And speaking of not making sense, what was High Emissary Nellis, a master of the Symposium and, by virtue of his status as Emissary of Trimale, de facto leader of the North, doing here leading a down-trodden conglomerate of dwarfs about the Darkerland?

  “I truly believe I can help, master dwarf,” Devan replied, trying to sound friendly, though he had a nagging suspicion his tone sounded more impatient than congenial. Val had always been the smooth talker.

  Nellis’s look retained a mix of skepticism and dislike. So much for diplomacy.

  “Away with ye strang—”

  Devan peregrinated. Nothing major—a quick place-to-place jump from where he’d stood in front of Nellis to a few paces behind the dwarf. He’d intended to simply make a quick point.

  Instead, he nearly materialized into a wall of shadow power so strong it threatened to vaporize him from existence. Some help he’d have been to the Path then. He stumbled back, trading death for the embarrassment of falling on his behind. He shot a glare at the dwarfs’ leader. Nellis’s arms were extended, focused on the point where the shadow hex had nearly ended him. But Nellis did not return Devan’s look of anger.

  “Angel,” Nellis whispered, eyes bulging. Then, looking as if he’d just cursed at his own mother, the dwarf released his shadow channel and scurried up to Devan. He Pathed himself as he did so, motioning from his forehead down to his waist then back up again. The surrounding dwarfs did the same, murmurs of awe mixed with terror bubbling from them.

  “My apol’gies,” Nellis spluttered, yanking at his braided hair. “We cert’nly meant no disrespect to the Aldur. Just been a hard day, as I’m sure ye know.” He glanced around before adding, “My lord.”

  Devan frowned up at the dwarf from where he still sat. Looked up. At a dwarf. He nearly laughed. Standing, Devan brushed himself off, considering the High Emissary. He should have expected this from the dwarfs, religious lot they were. Nellis clearly thought he was some kind of god, judging by the awe in his eyes and what he’d said. Devan hated being elevated so. Created unrealistic expectations. But it was nice to know some still adhered to the Alduric faith in this time. Ever since Agar’s death, increasingly few practiced it in Agarsfar.

  “Why would I know what sort of day you’ve had?”

  The dwarf looked taken aback and seemed to have trouble finding words.

  “B’cause,” he finally managed. “The Aldur know all. They’ve the Path imprinted on their minds from birth. It is written.”

  And there were the unrealistic expectations. He’d read every book ever written that was worth reading and was certain that had never been committed to paper. And while it might have been more or less true under normal circumstances, here, at the brink of a fracture in time itself, Devan had no idea what events may have just occurred to these dwarfs. Though it wouldn’t help his cause to admit that.

  “Yes. Fine. Fine. I’m an Aldur. Let’s skip to the part where you abide my requests.”

  The dwarf nodded eagerly.

  “What’s all that commotion coming from the rear of the caravan?”

  Nellis furrowed his brow. “Don’t ye know already?”

  Devan suppressed a sigh. “I’d hear it in your own words, master dwarf.”

  The gleam of surprised awe faded from Nellis’s eyes, replaced by a harrowed exhaustion.

  “Words aren’t sufficient.�
�� He took another uncertain look over his shoulder, then waved for Devan to follow. “You’ll need te see ’im, Angel.” Nellis moved off without another word.

  As he followed, most of the dwarfs refused to meet his gaze. This always happened when Linears learned who—what—he was. But the grim mood had been present even before the revelation of his identity. As if they’d just witnessed death.

  Or worse.

  The dwarfs who did meet his eyes did so without warmth. Not insubordination. More like a befuddled awe, as if they couldn’t decide whether he was Ralmos the Destroyer or Agar himself walking amongst them. And he supposed their confusion was apt. He’d like to think he was much more akin to Agar. But if he determined their existence threatened the Path, he wouldn’t hesitate to end them. So he ignored their continued stares and followed Nellis, winding through the mess of carts.

  Finally, Nellis stopped before a covered wagon towards the back of the caravan. There were no dwarfs standing around it. Indeed, they all seemed to be pointedly avoiding it. Even Nellis looked nervous—a stark contrast to the indignant attitude he’d given Devan just moments earlier.

  “He be in there,” the dwarf muttered. He gave a half nod at the wagon, didn’t even look at it, as if merely acknowledging its existence was an extraordinary act of courage.

  “Who?” Devan queried. Why was the dwarf suddenly so standoffish? He sensed that it was more than simply religious superstition.

  “Bah! See fer ye’self,” the dwarf snapped.

  Alright then. He pushed past the dwarf, not bothering to speak further. The canvas covering over the wagon had been drawn shut, so Devan couldn’t look in without stepping up and poking his head in. Nellis took another step away as he pulled himself up and drew back the covering.

  The dwarf’s concern turned out to have been quite well founded.

  12

  Jenzara

  In matters regarding the shadow, the will of the Temple and its chosen are inviolate.

  -Excerpt from the Shadow Edicts

  “HOPE TOTTERED ON A knife’s edge as Lady Tragnè joined hands with Agar to her right and Trimale to her left, completing the covenant. Twenty-six channelers strong, hands all clasped in a circle. They were surrounded by the remnants of the First Agarian Army, a force the need for which our founders had hoped would never arise. They had fled Sykt to Agarsfar, seeking respite from the Mad King and his oppressive hoarding of elemental knowledge.

  “But there had been no other way to defend themselves once the dark portal at the Valley of Ancients began to spew forth creatures of unspeakable horror, born of the cursed shadow, creatures of the Elsewhere. Demonic generals, heights taller than any man. Shades, foot soldiers of the shadow, deformed and plodding, yet somehow quick and unpredictable when engaged in close combat. Manticores, eyes black as doom, manes like shadow flame, and barbed tails dripping venom. And more, too terrible to speak of.

  “And at the head of these fiends marched Ralmos, the Kahn of Despair. He seemed ordinary enough on the outside. As the Lady herself wrote, he bore the face of one who’d been a lad only a handful of seasons past. Waving, auburn hair that was windswept and disarrayed in the dry northern waste. He was slender, dressed in a white tunic and coat of unremarkable cut. And yet he led the shadow hordes down upon the remnants of the First Agarian like a Terror. Dread hexes of every element shot from his fingertips, killing dozens in a single blow. Attacks washed off his shields like drizzle on a windowpane. Implacable, he drove his ravening host onward.

  “The army had fought bravely, but they were spent. Some non-believers have said Angels supported our founders, but our Lady never spoke such. She mentions the Aldur but once in her Oral Histories, and then only in a curse. If such beings indeed existed, surely they would not have abandoned Our Lady’s forces in their direst time of need?”

  There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd gathered to listen to the Parents’ morning sermon. The day had dawned overcast, the dusty clouds tinged red like dyed wool left too long in the sun. Jenzara found herself nodding along with the rest of the gathering. Only fools and traitors from the North put any stock in the Alduric Church.

  “But whether such legends existed or not,” the sermoning Parent went on, “no Angels were there now. Backs nearly to the river we now call Her Lady’s Justices, escape for the First Agarian seemed fleeting. The best their commanders could muster was to ensure the enemy didn’t cross into the South, where much of the Leveande who had fled from Sykt remained at the settlements that are now modern day Bristine and Tragnè City.

  “And so it was they formed the covenant, the Lady herself as its keystone, channeling her own power and the collective strength of 25 others. Nearly all the elementalists who remained in the First Agarian, for remember the Mad King had hoarded knowledge of the elements, and few who fled Sykt’s shores had been trained to realize their elemental ability. An oppression Agarsfar has sworn never to repeat.

  “Utilizing the covenant’s power, Lady Tragnè summoned forth a great wall of elemental power, weaving all five of the elements together. It shown like a jewel, shimmered like a mirage, stretching from the waters’ surface straight to the heavens.

  “Ralmos had sent outriders to flank the remaining forces, begin his invasion into the South. But when those forces hit Our Lady’s wall, they burned. Annihilated from this plane. Justice for the foul shadow spawn.”

  “Our Lady is justice,” came the solemn response from the crowd. Jenzara joined them in the recitation.

  “She dropped, spent from her great Invocation. The great Tragnè fallen, unable to rise. The battle, and Agarsfar’s future, could have ceased there.

  “But rather than sapping the will of the remaining combatants, it steeled them. They rallied, giving up a great shout for Our Lady, and plunged into the lines of the shadow horde. Agar rode at their head upon Rend’s back, the lion giving a roar that shook the whole of the North.

  “Agar and Rend mauled through the ranks, and Ralmos’s forces fell back. So furious was the First Agarian’s charge, the shadow hordes were pushed to the brink of the rift from whence they came. Agar and Rend met Ralmos head on, the lion rearing up on its hind legs before the Kahn’s outstretched hand. Then they crashed together, all three falling into the rift itself.”

  Silence intermingled with mournful murmurs.

  “Tragnè later wrote that reality and Elsewhere seemed to merge at that moment, the battle raging in alternating strobes of utter darkness and the blasted Northern plane. Through it all, a duel between Agar and Ralmos flickered across the skies, as if two gods vied for existence itself.

  “Then in an instant it was over. All the shadow fiends gone, the rift disappeared. Agar lay where the dark passage had been, arms wrapped around Rend, both their bodies broken and lifeless.

  “But the shadow threat was at an end. All of it prompted by Our Lady’s singular act of power and sacrifice in the face of overwhelming odds. One for which she would never take credit.”

  “Our Lady is humility,” intoned the crowd.

  The Parent giving the sermon looked about the assembled crowd. Most of Ral Mok, unless Jenzara missed her guess. Though, she noted with a downturn of her mouth that neither Ferrin nor father were present. Ferrin’s absence didn’t surprise her. He’d no doubt call the sermon fanciful dribble, or something like that. Probably best he wasn’t here. But the implied slight to the Parents of father’s absence troubled her, particularly after their argument the night prior.

  Certainly, you couldn’t take the sermon word for word. Like most things in religion, it was the thought and moral that counted most, not necessarily the literal translation. For instance, everyone knew the Elsewhere was nothing but a tale to scare young children. Father would understand, she was sure. Teaching through allegory.

  “And we recount the history of the last battle of the Great War,” the Parent continued, “not only to call to mind Our Lady’s justice and humility, but as a reminder of the grave threat we face today,
same as the founding Leveande did a thousand years past. The rift from which the shadow fiends came originated in the North. Then the Northerners forced upon us the cursed ebon, a devious effort to profit at the expense of Southern suffering. And to this day they persist in a religion that elevates the fifth element to the same level as the four primes. Their leader, Nellis Lonemage, the most powerful shadow attuned in a generation, was banished from the South and suspected in the plot that ended in the death of Rikar Bladesong and his son. Remember well the threat of the North. The reason for the Edicts.”

  Silence reigned as the Parent stared out over the crowd, many nodding in agreement.

  “And now the Giving.”

  “Our Lady is charity,” the crown replied.

  Jenzara’s heart skipped a beat. In father’s absence, the duty to accept the Giving fell to her. She hurried to the front of the group, favoring the Parent with a respectful smile. The same man who’d laughed at her channeling the day prior, she realized. Shinzar. His return stare could have driven nails. She gulped, casting her eyes downward.

  As she reached him, the man held out a bag of grain, which she accepted. It was only three-quarters full, and a bit damp. She’d heard that the Givings in Tragnè City were sometimes large enough to feed entire neighborhoods for a week, or clothe hundreds of the needy. But she supposed it was different when the Parents traveled. And their presence here was gift enough.

  “The Lady is charity,” the Parent said to her, his hammer of a stare never waning.

  “We give her thanks,” Jenzara replied in little more than a whisper.

  Before the words had left her lips, the Parent had already turned from her, preparing to lead the crowd in Tragnè’s catechism.

  A young girl’s cry rang out from the other side of the courtyard, followed by several angry shouts. Without preamble, Shinzar hefted his mace and shoved his way through the crowd, knocking several of the townsfolk to the ground. Jenzara stared after him in surprise, then hurried to follow towards the commotion. She carried the Giving with her, the sack leaching sodden husks onto her arms and tunic. As she reached the back of the crowd her eyes struggled to understand what they were seeing.