JUNDAG
THE CORNERSTONES TRILOGY:
BOOK 3
by
Chris A. Jackson
and
Anne L. McMillen-Jackson
Acknowledgements and Dedications
This book could not have taken form without the imaginations of three people who lived this adventure. To Jan, Kim and Anne: thank you for being my heroes.
This book is dedicated to my mother Shirley, who read to me, and taught me that the pictures in my mind were better than television.
CAJ
This book is also dedicated to my parents, Fran and Margie, who always encouraged me to follow my dreams, even when they led me far from home.
ALMcM-J
Jundag
The Cornerstones Trilogy
Book 3
by
Chris A. Jackson and Anne L. McMillen-Jackson
ePub edition
ISBN: 978-1939837059
10.25.15
Life after death can be hell...
For over a year, Jundag has lived—and died—and lived again at the whim of Calmarel Darkmist. Soul-sick and weary, he longs for the eternal peace of death. But Calmarel covets Jundag’s strength and fortitude, and devises a devious scheme to usurp those traits for her own profane ambitions.
Unbeknownst to Jundag, his spiritual anguish is perceived by his long-lost friend and companion, Avari. Convinced that Jundag is alive—or that she is going crazy—she seeks out the friends who shared in the liberation of Zellohar Keep. Using the two cornerstones they recovered from the Nekdukarr Iveron Darkmist, they locate their friend, and discover a fiendish plot. The children of the Dark Gods are again planning to subjugate the surface world. But simple conquest is no longer their goal...only complete annihilation will satisfy their blood lust.
Dragons and demons, Dark Gods and Darkmists all stand against the small troop of brave yet conflicted companions determined to save their friend from an eternity of torture, and their world from complete and utter destruction.
But first, they have to go to hell...
Copyright Notice
Copyright 2009
Chris A. Jackson and Anne L. McMillen-Jackson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, except for brief quotations in printed reviews—without prior permission from the author.
Cover art by Noah Stacy
Cover Image Copyright 2009 Jaxbooks
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Map
Pantheon
deity~domain~area of influence~symbol
The Gods of Light
The Seven Heavens
~The plane of Paradise above all~
Eos All Father (The Maker)~Nimbus~maker of all~circle of gold
Demia (Keeper of the Slain)~Eroe~usher of souls~feather
Oris (The Overseer)~Librum~knowledge~crossed scrolls
Tem (The Balancer)~Ordrin~justice~silver scales
Eloss (The Defender)~Refuge~warriors~a silver shield
Koss Godslayer~Korr~champions, knights~sword-point up
The Heavens are separated from all by Purgatory
The Gods of Earth and Sky
Earth Mother (Lady of the Forest)~life, earth~tree or gem
Thotris~beauty, fertility, vanity~a hand mirror
Puc (The Trickster)~luck, trickery~any coin
Bofuli~wine, meriment~a goblet
Odea~the sea, storms~the scimitar moon
Dorin (The Delver)~greed, wealth, gold, gems~crossed picks
The Hells are separated by Limbo and the River Oblivion
The Gods of Darkness
The Nine Hells
Pergamon (The Punisher)~Agonia~pain, torture~thorned chain
Seth (The Defiler)~Malorea~decay, poison, serpents~Ouroboros
Xakra (The Tangler)~Discord~plotting, deceit, chaos~spider
Mortas (The Deathless One)~Necrol~death~interlocking crescents
Phekkar (The Flaming One)~Hades~fire~a burning sun
The Lower Hells
Grund~Lair~orcs, ogres and trolls~clenched fist
~The Void~
Draco~Pytt~dragons~reptilian eye
~The Abyss~
PRELUDE
The mediator of Xerro Kensho gazed up into The Void.
As always, the view awed her: a sky blacker than the deepest cavern, more impenetrable than a wall of the hardest granite. A sky that reflected the emotions in her heart. A sky that would allow the Dark Five—Pergamon, Seth, Xakra, Mortas, and Phekkar—to reign supreme in all their terrible glory.
Dropping her gaze, she stared out from the balcony on which she stood, through the clear, chill air to the faint glimmer of the shield that surrounded and protected the citadel. She caught her breath as a huge shape loomed beyond the shield, great leathery wings billowing. It spewed forth flames, but they splashed harmlessly against the citadel's protective barrier. The draconic residents of Pytt resented the intrusion represented by the citadel, but she cared not. She dismissed the impotent display and drank in the majesty of the view, dreaming of a dark future.
A cruel smile drew the mediator's lips apart and her tongue darted out to run over her even, white teeth; she could nearly taste their victory. This sky—The Void—was to be the salvation of her people. For so long they had been shunned like vermin, forced to dwell in the confines of the deep caverns of the world while the surface dwellers luxuriated in more space than they could ever hope to occupy. But in a few short weeks that would change. With the power of The Void, they would purge the surface world, clearing it for conquest. The plan had been hundreds of years in the making, and she would see its culmination. She closed her eyes as she praised the gods who had granted her this opportunity.
"Mediator Koyrull."
The grating voice shattered the mediator's reverie, stiffening her shoulders with tense distaste, erasing her smile, leaving upon her features only the cruelty that was the core of her being. She turned slowly toward the master of the voice, Ngeryl, Mediator of Toff Zyr, another of the Dark Gods' greatest cities.
"We are ready to continue, Mediator Koyrull, if you would deign to lend us your attention."
It was neither Ngeryl's snide manner nor his condescending tone that grated on her nerves. What irritated Koyrull was the sound of her proper name. Part of becoming a mediator was, after all, the severing of all personal ties to name and clan. After passing the rites of ascension, a mediator was known only as "Mediator", a title that commanded respect and fear. The use of her name brought back memories of impotence and subservience that stoked the fires of her rage.
Koyrull bit back a retort as she returned to the room, glancing at the other occupants. Unspeakable power smoldered behind the six pairs of eyes that met her scrutiny, power even to rival her own, for here sat the rulers of the cities that were participating in this project with Xerro Kensho. Mediators all, they were her peers and, as such, merited a certain level of tolerance. They had all agreed to the use of personal names to avoid the confusion of a conversation between seven mediators, and although no truce could stay Koyrull's rage at being addressed by a name she had not used in nearly two centuries, she knew it was the will of the Dark Five that they cooperate.
"Have all the progress reports finally been submitted, Ngeryl?" Koyrull asked, allowing herself a bit of verbal sparring. It was the fault of this presumptuous twit that the meeting was delayed in the first place! How dare he take me to task, she seethed inw
ardly.
"As I said they would be, Koyrull," the delinquent mediator fumed back, his black, serrated armor rustling like metallic leaves on the wind with his every movement.
"Excellent," Koyrull said. Like a true authoritarian, she shook off her murderous thoughts and returned her concentration to the problem at hand. "Now that we are ready, I would like to propose that each city donate one hundred slaves to the efforts of Trokk Nour and Zerrokesh. Their progress has fallen well behind and must be brought up to pace."
"The delay is no fault of mine!" the mediator of Zerrokesh snapped as he surged to his feet in anger, his dark, nomadic features clouding dangerously. El-Jumm had only recently passed the rites of ascension, and was yet untempered. "We lost a hundred seventy of our best slaves during the last flux in the shield!"
"It was not my intent to assess blame for the drop in performance, El-Juum," Koyrull explained as she returned to the septagonal table strewn with plans and papers. "I was merely trying to rectify the setback. Additional slave laborers will be brought in as soon as the present instability in the portal is repaired. Once progress in all seven sectors is comparable, the loaned labor will be returned. If there is no opposition to this plan, I would like to see it put into effect immediately."
Silence reigned around the table.
"Excellent!" she grinned genuinely, her teeth glowing white between her thin lips. "Now, please continue with the reports."
As the tedious and long-winded presentations of the progress on the citadel resumed, Koyrull found her mind wandering back to the thrilling view that still raged outside.
Soon, almighty Dark Ones, she thought victoriously, very soon indeed...
CHAPTER 1
He opened his eyes to a curious sense of déjà vu. Although the darkness before him was as deep as that behind his eyelids, he stared intently, striving to recall the dim and unpleasant memories that lurked in the gloom.
Jundag, he thought hesitantly, then more strongly as the name resonated; it felt right. I am Jundag.
He tested his bonds, but already knew that they were secured to the stone. He started to rise, then stopped, remembering that the ceiling was too low for him to stand upright. He heard a skittering noise and instantly knew it was a rat, and that if he was not vigilant, the rodents would feast on him while he slept. Additional memories began to seep into his tortured mind as rainwater seeps through a leaky roof, first a drop or two, then a torrent. He remembered hours spent in back-breaking labor, and hours more in blessed solitude. He remembered the jeering roar of a crowd, and the peal of cruel laughter.
But most of all, he remembered pain.
He felt again the lash of a whip, the burn of hot coals, the searing cut of a knife parting his flesh. He felt a heavy weight smash onto the bones of his fingers, the inflexible tension of the rack as it dislocated his shoulders. He felt the agony of molten metal dripping onto his skin.
And he remembered waking after the pain, time and time again, his fingers whole, his shoulders firm and strong, and his skin intact, albeit scarred. Hale, as he was now. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw afterimages of jet-black hair, pale skin, and flashing white teeth. And he felt his soul sink...as he remembered her.
Jundag heaved a sigh and was surprised by a rattling cough that left his sides aching before it subsided. Reeling in his thoughts from the tumultuous sea of memories that threatened to drown him, he concentrated on himself, and realized that not all was as he remembered. He felt a deep-seated ache in the very marrow of his bones which, along with the cough, told him that something was different this time.
He heard the familiar rattle of keys and the clank as the door to his cell was thrown open.
A flood of torchlight nearly blinded him, but he managed to squint through it to see the figure in the doorway. It was muscular and bent, curved tusks upthrust from its lower jaw. It stooped into the confines of the cell and quickly worked a key into his manacles. Even as he rubbed his wrists, the burly beast snatched him by the arm and hauled him out into the light of the passage. The beast (Tredgh is its name, he thought) then let him go, turning to close the cell door.
Jundag took his chance immediately, more by reflex than through any conscious thought. Pretending to slump to the opposite wall, he turned and planted his feet, preparing to launch himself into his jailer and smash him against the door.
"Stop!" a voice ordered, halting him in mid-lunge.
He stumbled, wondering why he had complied with the command, then his hands shot to his neck, grasping the delicate gold circlet there. That voice... Jundag turned, and the worst of his nightmarish memories were rekindled.
"Welcome back to the world of the living, Jundag," Calmarel said from where she stood beyond the glare of a wall-mounted torch, draped in shadow. "I have missed you, my temperamental pet. It’s been far too long since you last died, but I was...busy, and hadn’t had the chance to revivify you until now.”
"I wish you would leave me dead!" Jundag seethed, ignoring Tredgh's threatening growl. This woman incited such loathing and disgust in him as he had never imagined he could feel. The memories of her various tortures slipped and slid like eels though his mind, too slick to fasten onto, yet leaving slime in their wakes. And something else... Something important... He snarled in frustration as the memory he sought eluded him.
"Well, after so many revivifications, I’d expect you to be a bit tamer,” Calmarel declared in response to his outburst, “but I see that your strength is undiminished. Good! Tredgh, clean him, feed him well and make sure he’s completely recovered from the revivification. I’ll be away for a few days, but when I return, I will be in need of relaxation. And I believe,” she teased as she wagged her finger at him, “my pet is in need of another obedience lesson.”
She turned and walked into the darkness. Jundag wrinkled his brow as he watched her go. Something about her looked...wrong, but try as he might, he could not discern what.
Tredgh pushed him roughly forward, tempting attack, but Jundag knew it would be futile. With the collar, a word from Calmarel would restrain him, and he would only pay for it later. Besides, he was too distracted by elusive memories that fluttered on the edge of his mind...then flitted away.
The barest rustle of fern and bough marked the passage of the stalker as she crept through the woods. Like a large predatory cat, she slid through the darkness undetected even by the wild and watchful beasts of the forest. But this stalker was human, with a soot-blackened face and sword, and softly rustling armor covered by supple garments of dark leather. The light of the half moon through a thin overcast guided her precise steps, but it was light from a clearing a few hundred feet ahead that pulled her like a moth toward its warm yellow glow.
Avari was on the hunt.
The distance to the clearing's edge took more than an hour to traverse. As she neared, she stooped to a crouch, then crept the last few yards on her belly, eyes downcast to hide their whites, ears straining as she moved solely by touch. The voices of her prey rumbled within the clearing, harsh and rasping over the soft pop and crackle of their fire, setting her nerves aflame with the rush of adrenalin. Edging forward, she nudged her face into a damp patch of ferns around the thick bole of an oak, and finally saw them.
Five men occupied the camp: two lay on blankets, their chests moving in the rhythmic rise and fall of sleep; two sat, talking across the fire; and one strolled about, his back to the fire, his eyes on the forest. A steady breeze from her left ensured that her scent would remain undetected, and kept the fire smoke out of her eyes, exactly as she had planned.
One of the two-dozen horses staked to her left nickered; Avari examined them for a moment and spied a distinctive brand on one sleek flank. Yes, these were the animals she was looking for, although their theft was only one reason she sought these men. Her clear thoughts clouded for a moment, overpowered by vivid memories of a charred farmhouse, a man beaten nearly to death, a woman pierced through the stomach with an arrow and left to die in horrible agon
y, and the vacant stare of a little girl only twelve summers old. A little girl who had been left battered, naked and bleeding after these five men had finished with her.
Whitened knuckles popped and her sword hilt's leather wrapping creaked in her furious grip. The noise snapped her out of her murderous rage, fearful that she had given herself away. The men, however, remained as oblivious as before. The one presumably on watch, the only one paying any attention to their surroundings at all, strolled to within five feet of her. Killing him would have been child's play, but Avari wanted them all. And for that she required a diversion.
When the sentry had passed, Avari eased a blackened dagger from its sheath. She gauged the man's movement, then whistled a complex twitter and began to count slowly. Her whistle attracted only one man's fleeting attention, but he quickly returned to his conversation. When Avari reached five, the sentry was almost across the clearing from her. When she reached ten, her muscles tensed and the bushes on the far side of the clearing rustled violently. The three men reacted immediately, rousing their sleeping companions and whirling toward the disturbance, exactly as she had planned.
Avari emerged from the foliage silently, not breaking into a sprint until free of the restricting undergrowth. She hit the men at a dead run. Just as one was starting to turn toward her, all her strength and momentum drove the pommel of her sword into his jaw, smashing it into splintered ruin and dropping him to the ground unconscious. He was the luckiest.
Another whirled and raised a weapon to parry, but Avari's stroke met his forearm instead of his blade. Her sword clove his arm and still had momentum enough to slash through half his neck. He thrashed violently, then stilled; he would be dead in moments.
Avari spun to confront her remaining three foes, and found them quietly backing out of striking distance. They stood silently gauging her attack and confidently considering their response.
This, she thought with a brief twinge of worry, is not as I planned. The plan called for disorganization and confusion on their part, efficiency and vindication on hers. Her worry deepened when she noted that one man bore no weapon. He instead reached for a belt pouch while muttering unintelligibly. Her plan did not include facing a wizard. The true value of a plan, however, is how well it can accommodate changing circumstances, and Avari's plan was a good one.
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