Gods and Heroes- Rise of Fire

by Brendan Wright

  Atillus

  Hours passed in complete darkness. And worse, complete silence. Were it not for the sensation of touch reminding him he was buried in stone, he would have thought he'd died. Atillus sat on the cold floor, trying to be calm. He didn't understand what was happening, and that scared him more than what he was experiencing; He hadn't come across anything he couldn't understand until now.

  He tried to distract himself by reciting books he'd read, recalling the pages and the words in as much detail as he could. He got through three entire volumes on the tactics of battle before he couldn't concentrate any more. His head pulsed with the silence; he heard the blood rushing through his veins, and his lungs fill with air and empty again. He knew it was driving him insane, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had no idea how much time passed, but it felt like an eternity.

  Suddenly light spilled over him, and although nothing ever looked so beautiful, the brightness forced his eyes shut. The door was open. After Atillus stood, he stopped cold; the door that opened was on the other side of the corridor. It didn't lead back to the library. Even as he feared for what might be beyond, he knew he needed to leave the corridor. Nothing could be worse than the living death of being buried alive with only the sense of touch to keep him grounded in reality.

  Atillus stepped through the doorway into a small room. It was mostly bare, and though it looked incredibly old, it was clean. The only furniture was a small table and chair against the far wall, a small bookcase, and an ancient looking wooden chest banded with some type of thick metal. The bookcase contained a small handful of old books and scrolls of parchment, and there was an open book on the small table. Other than that the room was empty. There were no other doors, and Atillus suddenly realised that there was no fireplace, nor any torches. Not even a window. There was just light. It filled the room with the warmth of natural light, with no visible source.

  Atillus approached the open book on the small reading table. He felt warmth coming from the book itself, and he started to make sense of what he was experiencing. He'd read about magic, though he saw no proof of its existence. But he realised that the pitch black, silent corridor and this warm, mysterious light could be some sort of ancient magic spell. There were so few books in this small hidden room, and he endured hours of looming insanity just to get to them. The few references to real magic he came across in the library all mentioned ancient spellbooks which instilled a mortal being with the power to wield magic. He knew then, before he even reached the open book, it was some powerful artefact of ancient times; when magic was as much a presence in Pandeia as the sand in the Omasi deserts.

  Other than the warmth, and its obvious age, there was nothing special about the book. It was bound in ancient black scales that he recognised as the hide of an Omasi Sand Panther, which wasn't uncommon for older books written in Omas and Theara. Unlike countries such as Tarsium and Shanaken, the animals living in Theara and Omas were almost exclusively covered in armoured scales, and anything that would otherwise be built out of leather had to be built using scales.

  Atillus gently touched the open book. Although he was prepared for some new mysterious catastrophe, the pages reacted to his touch the same as any other book might. He breathed a sigh of relief and turned a page or two. Every page featured at least one crudely drawn picture of fire or flames, and the words seemed to be explaining how to harness one's energy to create and manipulate fire. Atillus closed the book. When he saw the cover his breath caught in his throat:

  A Complete Encyclopeadia

  of the Arcane Arts

  Volume Three:

  Fire Magic

  He looked at the bookshelf next to the table. None of the books in it were volume one or two from this Arcane Encyclopeadia. Disappointed, Atillus went to the bookshelf anyway, checking each book and scroll. There were some ancient maps and books on ancient mythical creatures either fictional or extinct. A few of the scrolls just contained huge, nonsensical symbols scrawled all over them in what appeared to be old, dried blood. Atillus collected all of the books and scrolls, and piled them onto the small reading table. He didn't know if he'd ever get out of this mysterious little room, but he was determined to learn all he could from the books it contained, especially if it was actually possible to learn to harness and use magic.

  Plenty of tales about the Thearan nomads and their ability to wield Fire Magic were scattered throughout the Royal Library, but there was no definitive proof he could find. He dismissed the stories as boastful myths spread by the Thearans to increase their reputation as dangerous warriors and mercenaries. But the more he read of this mysterious new book, the more he was convinced magic could be wielded by mortals.

  Atillus read for hours, absorbing everything as he always did. He poured over the information on Fire Magic again and again, intending to remember every word. When he read it three times through, he moved to the centre of the room and sat cross-legged on the floor, assuming a meditative stance for concentration as the book suggested. He sat perfectly still, willing some force of the world, some mysterious magic, to live again. He pictured flames, roaring and rumbling, burning an entire village down in his mind's eye. He imagined his body was heating up, growing warmer and warmer until he himself burst into flame. But nothing worked. No matter what he tried, Fire Magic was simply out of his reach. He stood stiffly; he'd been sitting motionless for what must have been half a day. He read through the rest of the books, if only to distract himself from the disappointment of the Fire Magic volume.

  After a little while, he tried to use Fire Magic again. When he failed, he stood and paced the small room, furious at the ancient tome for falsely promising such power. He was furious at himself as well. Even at ten years of age he knew he was likely the most intelligent person in Omatus; if anyone could teach themselves to use magic, it should be him.

  After an eternity pacing the small room, Atillus was lost his patience. He went back to the door he'd come through and tried to open it. A sharp panic twisted his gut as he realised the door wouldn’t budge. He shook his head, refusing to believe he was trapped. The door was the twin of the one on the other side, connecting the corridor to the library. Atillus stared hard at the old, solid wood, and blinked. Right in the centre of the circular handle, there was a tiny rune carved into the wood. An unsettling feeling of familiarity took hold of him suddenly, and he shivered. Although he was sure this was the first time he'd ever seen the symbol, he couldn't help but feel like it meant something to him. He paced again, accepting that the door was out of his power for the moment. He sat in the small reading chair, thinking on the carved rune in the door handle. He glanced over the room, furious at everything and nothing. He'd read every book the mysterious room contained, and explored every inch of it. Casting his gaze restlessly around the room, he suddenly stopped. The room still had one mystery left.

  Atillus knelt in front of the ancient wood and metal chest. Slowly, he placed his hand on the curved top. He felt it humming with energy, and wondered what else he would find in this mysterious place. There was a strange silence about the chest, despite the humming. Not the dead, maddening silence of the corridor; a tenuous, anticipatory silence, like the heartbeat between a flash of lightning and the clap and boom of thunder. He found himself holding his breath accidentally, and shuddered as his lungs filled again. The chest was locked, but the padlock didn't appear to be made from the same metal as the black steel bands set in the ancient wood. It was rusted, and though thick, there was very little actual metal left.

  Atillus grabbed one of the huge tomes from the reading table and carried it over. He lifted it above the padlock, and slammed the heavy book into it as hard as he could. The lock didn't budge. He tried again, and again, and on the fourth try he felt the padlock loosen. On the fifth, he heard and felt a sudden snap followed by a heavy thud on the stone floor. The ring of the padlock was still resting in the brackets of the chest, the rest of the lock lying on the floor. He smiled and pulled the broken ring
out of the chest.

  The lid was heavy, almost unbelievably heavy, but he eventually pushed it far enough to stay open on its own. He was sweating and breathing heavily by then, his pale brown hair sticking to his bronze skin. Despite his exhaustion, he needed to see what was in the chest; so instead of listening to his aching muscles, he knelt again and peered inside.

  At first what he saw made no sense. He blinked and wiped the sweaty hair from his eyes, certain it was a trick of the eye. But after his eyes cleared, he realised what he saw was real.

  The chest was completely lined with the same black metal as the bands on the outside; the wood was just a covering. Laying in the centre of the chest was a massive burnt book. It was charred to a deep, shiny black so dark that it was barely visible against the metal it lay on. Warmth emanated from it. As he stood above it, the warmth slowly grew to heat, then to a fierce burn that pulsed from the open chest, making his eyes water and his skin feel scorched.

  Suddenly, thin lines opened like scars in the centre of the book's cover, dragging from point to point, as if an animal was tearing its claws through the paper. Pure, blinding light shone through the cuts, and through his half blind, watery eyes, Atillus saw something which stopped his heart: The rune from the door handle. Only this time when he saw it, he was certain he had seen it before finding this cursed room. He had a vivid memory of seeing this exact book, in fact. His clear memory of the book warred in his mind with the absolute certainty that he'd never seen it before today. While half of him was sure he'd read the book and knew it well, the other half desperately needed to find out what was contained within. His mind whirled and fought, and for a moment he was sure he would vomit. The heat from the book pounded his sore head, dizzying him and scattering his already conflicted thoughts.

  There was nothing else he could have done. Even as he scolded himself for recklessness, he reached into the chest. The second his fingers touched the book, an explosion of flame roared to life from the cover. The heat was immeasurable, and although only the tips of two of his fingers touched it, he didn't think he'd ever been in as much pain as he was in that moment. Some part of him needed the book open, so through the pain, Atillus flipped the cover.

  Once the book opened, the fire calmed, settling into a flickering glow. Atillus leaned closer, sucking his burnt fingers, and read the title on the first page:

  Sithares: God of Fire

  This book was the first and only compelling evidence Atillus ever came across for the existence of a God. He started reading, mesmerised by the idea of a real live God. The pages on the inside of the book were hot, but not hot enough to burn him. He shook his head in amazement as he kept reading:

  Sithares is, like all Gods, a being made of pure energy given consciousness. Its power mirrors that of its energy source, and its weaknesses also. Sithares gains strength from destruction; from the burning of objects, buildings and (perhaps most of all) of people. Like all Gods, it also gains strength from the prayers of those who follow it. It can share a measure of its power with its followers, giving them the ability to create and control fire, though this is a gift reserved for only the most devout as doing so takes power directly from Sithares itself.

  He stopped at that. Sithares wasn't worshipped anywhere any more that he was aware of. There were possibly Thearan tribes in the Omasi deserts who still worshipped the Fire God, but he hadn't read anything about active worship in his life. The only previous references Atillus saw of Sithares were brief mentions in mythical stories and legends; nowhere near enough to inspire belief. But this book was something else.

  Atillus leafed through the pages, knowing he would eventually read it all, until he came upon what he was looking for: A prayer to Sithares. He hoped one would be written somewhere in the book, and it made sense, but his breath still caught in his throat when he saw the words:

  O great God of Fire

  I, your lowly servant, pledge to you my life and soul

  I give to you all that I have, and pray that you see fit to bestow upon me but one small gift

  I beg of you, Sithares, God of Fire, grant me the power of Fire Magic, that I might greater serve you

  I swear on my life and soul, with the fire you give me I will burn so bright that Shadow itself will be torn from the world

  Atillus read the passage several times, committing every word to memory. He sat again as before, in the centre of the room, cross legged and still. He closed his eyes, focused intently on the image of burning flames. He recited the prayer out loud, trying to sound confident and older than his ten years.

  The very instant he finished, the images he pictured became chaotic reality. He heard the flames, felt them licking his skin, saw the red glow behind his eyelids. He felt fire inside his body, heat swelling until he felt he would explode. He opened his eyes and couldn't see the room; the flames were real. His heart skipped as the entire room became enveloped in raging fire. He looked down and saw his own body burning. He screamed, flailing and swiping his hands over his body, desperately trying to put out the flames. It was no use. After the panic died down, he realised there was no pain. He felt the heat, and though intense, it wasn't hurting him. His skin wasn't burnt, and he could still breath with no problems. If anything he felt more alive than ever before.

  Just as his heart began to slow back down to a normal beat, he heard the whispered voice of the God of Fire.

  Aella

  Shouts drifted over the camp. Aella walked between tents and dormant camp fires, on her way to practice with her two short swords, when the shouting stopped her. A crowd formed a loose circle around something, cheering and booing; and in Thearan tribes that only meant one thing: a fight to the death. Aella ran towards the crowd.

  A stranger stood in the clearing left by the crowd, Pure-blood Thearan, just like her. He was huge, possibly even seven foot tall. Heavily muscled. Even his stance screamed lethal. He stood across from one of the Thearans in her tribe, Platon, who was almost as tall as the stranger and even bigger across the chest. At a glance, Aella knew exactly what was happening. Whenever a stranger wanted to join a Thearan tribe, they had to prove their skills. Some tribes were more forgiving, but the tribe Aella grew up in demanded death as the price for entry. The same price had to be paid for leadership; the current leader of any given tribe only gave up their position of power to the Thearan who killed them in one-on-one combat.

  The stranger held a cheap-looking grey steel sword; not Thearan steel. Wrapped around his torso was a much more elegant and expensive looking weapon, something Aella had never seen: It was a long, heavy chain ending in a brutally sharp Thearan spearhead on one end and a heavy spiked metal ball on the other. The spearhead rested in a sheath on the stranger's back, and the spiked ball hung secure at his waist. This weapon, unlike the cheap sword he held, was definitely forged from Thearan steel. The chain remained untouched, however, and the stranger seemed content with the dull grey sword in his hand. Platon was unimpressed with the newcomer, and announced his feelings to the crowd, to deafening cheers from his fellow warriors.

  The newcomer seemed completely unconcerned by the tribe's apparent contempt for him, and stood calmly staring down his opponent. Platon finally grew sick of taunting and approached the Omati warrior confidently.

  "What is your name, stranger?" he asked without breaking stride, "I would know so I may whisper it to the fire when I burn your corpse in the desert." Platon stabbed at the stranger's throat without waiting for an answer, and the crowd screamed and cheered.

  The unknown warrior slipped underneath Platon's blade with no effort and swept his empty hand, balled into a fist, viciously into Platon's side. He sidestepped and stood as Platon grunted and fell to his knees in the grey sand.

  "Kerberos." He said. His voice held absolutely no emotion. Platon rose faced his opponent, ready to fight again, but Aella had seen all she needed to; Kerberos would win this fight. The thought made her uncomfortable. The newcomer was a beast of a man, a deadly, brutal warrior, but
that wasn't the reason. A foreboding, malicious energy seemed to emanate from him in waves. The word that kept flashing in Aella's mind was powerful. But it felt like a purely antagonistic kind of powerful, and Aella realised she was truly scared of him. And Platon, despite looking like a hulking monster, had always been friendly to Aella. She didn’t want to see him die just to be replaced by this dangerous newcomer.

  They were fighting properly now, blades singing and sand flying up in clouds as they stepped and twirled around each other. Even at eleven years of age, it was clear to Aella, if no one else, that Kerberos was merely playing with Platon. She watched him as her mother taught her to watch all warriors whenever she had the chance to witness them fight; analysing, memorising, watching for patterns and habits. Watching for weaknesses. Kerberos was a brilliant fighter. He’d assessed Platon the same way Aella was weighing him up now; but he’d done it at a glance, before they even started the fight. Despite his size, he was blindingly fast. Aella couldn’t follow some of his strikes, and she knew she was incredibly fast too, even at her age.

  After a few moments of Kerberos' toying, during which Aella was dismayed to see Platon becoming arrogantly sure of victory, the Thearan warrior finally dropped his act. He disarmed Platon and swept his cheap steel blade through his throat, so deep he almost beheaded the man entirely. The crowd cheered, but now for Kerberos, chanting his name and stomping their feet. There was no place for sentimentality in the desert; only strength.

  It seemed like Kerberos was now one of them. Aella slipped away from the crowd, dark thoughts clouding her young mind.