Concordance

by Cameron Hayden

  His reading, while slow, was now at least passable, and I began to introduce him to some of my favorite classical authors. We read together, passing the books between each other, with me helping him out on some of the more difficult sections.

  “I’m not stupid, Professor,” Decan said indignantly.

  I tapped my finger on the cover of the book I was holding. “Believe me, I know. I didn’t mean any offense by it, I just think that we should start on a book of more moderate difficulty, if you follow me.”

  “Benny Bilge the Beedle? I’m not four.”

  I set the children’s book facedown on the table between us. At Magister Ross’ recommendation, I’d made the small library aboard the Concordance something of a second home for myself, and a study hall for Decan.

  “It’s a fine story—” I began.

  “It’s insulting!”

  “It teaches alliteration and articulation, both of which you need to master,” I said apologetically, then sighed. “But fine, I understand. We’ll try something a bit more advanced.” I gestured toward the bookshelves lining the small, cramped library. “You pick.”

  Giving me one final glare, Decan stood up, brushing his pant leg, and moved directly to the shelves. It took him less than a minute to pick out the one he wanted.

  “This one,” he said, sliding the book off the shelf and dusting the cover with his gray sleeve. He read the title aloud: “The Dragon King, a history compiled by Sun King Renethon.”

  He handed it to me, and I ruffled through it. It was a ponderous tome, though it was split up like an anthology, with several dozen stories separated by chapter markers. The Dragon King—Craetos the All-Seer—was a very real historical figure. However, from a cursory glance at the text, the stories seemed to be fictionalized versions of real events, not a beat-for-beat historical account.

  That wasn’t uncommon with history texts of the early Renethonic era of Endran literature. When I gave my lectures, I often referred to the Renethonic era as the period of “theatrical, expanded” history, wherein the larger details were mostly correct, but there was some obvious embellishment here and there.

  “Very well,” I said, opening the book to a passage that I fancied. It was the story of the Dragon King’s battle against Nuruthil.

  Decan took a deep breath as if he were preparing himself for some great feat, then tried to read the first words on the page.

  “In those days, the dark str-str-stra… a… tag,” Decan contorted his face, trying to reason out what the word could be. After a few seconds of fighting with it, he looked up at me with furious eyes. “You chose this one on purpose.”

  I waved my hands in negation. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” I had, actually. The word was stratagems. “Sound it out.”

  “Strat…a…gems,” he repeated awkwardly. “Stratagems. What does that mean?”

  “It means a plan or a strategy.”

  “Why not just say ‘strategy,’ then?” Decan countered.

  “Stop complaining, and start reading,” I said, tapping the page with my forefinger.

  Decan gave me one more look, and began to read aloud:

  _____

  In those days, the dark stratagems of Nuruthil ran deep throughout The Arkos. Many forget that the moniker of ‘The Mad God’ was not always used to describe Nuruthil. Quite the opposite. All early experiences showed him to be a highly rational deity, fiercely protective of his children, and possessing a curious wonder at all creation.

  He crafted The Arkos with love, delicate balance, and brilliant ingenuity. What specifically broke his mind and turned him into the vile, omnicidal destroyer he eventually became is unknown to this day.

  What is known is that at some point between the creation of The Arkos, and the rise of the humanity, Nuruthil came to believe his creation was fundamentally flawed; that it couldn’t be saved, and the best choice was the destroy it and begin anew. The other Illithari (“Old Gods,” as they’re commonly called)—Keradeth, Lorendamu, Amín, Sarona, Irenim, and Terithoth—opposed him, and used their combined power to prevent him from destroying all of creation with a mere thought.

  He could not unmake the world through his own power, but there were other ways to bring about his dark design. While the dragon broods were firmly against him, opting instead to follow Sarona’s wisdom, there were a great many human kingdoms that joined his crusade to “purify” The Arkos. Nuruthil went to their corrupt rulers, whispering sweet words and promises of glory and power.

  “You and your people will be spared,” he said to them. “And when The Arkos is cleansed in righteous fire, you will rise above all as my servants in the new world.”

  This he promised, and the Seven Kings of Vor’aj swore to him their life and blood. His poisonous words spread far, to the Lords of the Forest, to the Elderlings of the Storm Peaks, to the dark fae of Rill, and to the Stone Giants of Mormordris. Hundreds of thousands joined his crusade.

  Thus began the bloodiest war in history. In the years it spanned, more died than are alive in the world today. Cities were pillaged, libraries burned, and homes razed.

  As the war raged, Nuruthil’s mind continued to collapse, until he was a shadow of his former self. He taught profane magics to the Seven Kings, summoning rituals that required sacrificing human lives on a mass scale.

  With these death rituals, Nuruthil was able to pull beings from the reach between worlds. Horrible amalgamations of flesh and magic, rotten to their bitter hearts. They were his “New Gods,” meant to replace his rebellious children, whom he held in contempt. But whereas the Old Gods were industrious, virtuous, and righteous, these creatures’ only concern was perpetuating their master’s plans. Human life was a resource to be used and discarded.

  Isaroth was the first bubbling mass pulled from the Void, called the Deceiver. Wreathed in tendrils, he brought with him legions of void apparitions to the war.

  Suborgath was the second putrid cyst that slithered out, called the Corruptor. Appearing as a frail old man, he went forward conquering through poisoned words.

  Cthurihl was the next festering sore on the world; wreathed in fire, he was called the Breaker. The most depraved of the Mad God’s army, he took delight in the tortured screams of those he eradicated.

  The final, and perhaps most dangerous, Sith-Narosa, the last hateful blight to scar our world. The ravenous Devourer, who set out to consume all creation in its thousand maws; tree, root, stone, and flesh.

  With this army, the Mad God would wage his final war against mankind.

  But there were other forces at work to combat the rising shadow. Led by the Dragon King, Craetos, the greatest hero to ever live.

  _____

  Decan lowered the book.

  “Why’d you stop?” I asked hastily. “You were doing so well.”

  “I don’t like this story,” Decan said grimly. “It gives me the chills. Why would anyone follow Nuruthil like that? It makes no sense. It’s obvious that after they helped, he’d kill them all.”

  I leaned back in my chair and stared up idly at the pipes running along the ceiling. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years of uncovering the ancient world, it’s that people will defy all logic and reason for more power. Even if that power is temporary and fleeting.”

  Out of habit, I checked my pocket watch. As I’d expected, it was getting late. “We’ll pick it up tomorrow. I’m going to get some rest.”

  “I’m not tired,” Decan said.

  “Fair enough, but if you’re going to stay in here, I want you to read more of that book to yourself.”

  “But—” he began.

  “No buts. You chose it, now you read it. And don’t go wandering off to Tiffin’s quarters.”

  Decan looked down, twiddling his thumbs. “I won’t. Magister Ross already caught me once.”

  “Oh?”

  “She said if she found me again, she’d shoot me out of one of the ship’s cannons. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.”


  I laughed. “It’s best not to test it. She’s a serious woman.” I nudged toward the book in Decan’s hands. “If you want to impress Tiffin, the best way is to expand your mind. You already know she fancies you—in fact, everyone around you two knows that—but she’s a fan of intellect. Push yourself to be better, and she’ll never let you go.”

  Decan was visibly blushing, and seemed so embarrassed that he couldn’t speak. Instead, he simply nodded and looked away, red-faced as I hurried off to bed.

  All told, it took us eight days to make it to the coast of Nuruthada, and another thirty hours of travelling downstream toward Lake Yaserj. I only knew this because I was told so. In the bowels of the Concordance, it was nearly impossible to tell even the most basic of things, from our exact location, or even the time of day.

  There were many portholes, one in nearly every room in fact, and several in the mess hall, but they showed much of the same: murky water, and the occasional colorful fish or reef. Rations grew less enjoyable, as much of our fresh vegetables and fruits were eaten before they rotted. Still, especially compared to what was to come, things were pleasant. It was the calm before the storm, and it was in the evening of the tenth day—nearly two months since I’d set off from Celosa Edûn—that the metaphorical storm began.

  What we found that day changed everything.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The Trinitus

  Around suppertime, I was in the lower mess hall with the majority of the crew. Magister Ross and the officers had a private dining room near the bridge, which I was welcome to, but I much preferred the crew’s mess hall to the relatively posh, porcelain-plated feasting of the senior staff.

  Down in the lower mess, there was singing and dancing, frothy drinks, and many of the more talented crewmen playing sweet music on fiddles, lyres, flutes, and lutes. They strummed and hummed, while we ate and drank tall tankards of ale. I gave Decan his first shot of fire whiskey, which he downed in one gulp while Tiffin watched. His eyes watered, and his fingers shook as he tried to pretend like it hadn’t been quite as bad as the crewmen had been making it out to be. I’m certain Tiffin saw through his performance.

  Tiffin’s grandfather owned a brewery a few miles outside of Celosa Edûn, and was something of an expert on drinks. She took one sniff of the whiskey and deemed it unpalatable for her refined tastes. Nevertheless, the waifish girl took a long swig that made my eyes water, and unlike Decan, it truly seemed to have no effect on her.

  “Dreadful, like watery cat piss,” Tiffin said, sliding the bottle back to one of the crewmen. “If you’re ever in Celosa, boys, visit the Lentillus Distillery and I’ll show you a proper drink.”

  There was a light, jovial tone about the entire evening, but that tone was broken by what happened next. Amidst the singing and drinking, a loud, blaring alarm sounded through the ship. The iron-covered red lights over the doors flashed, and all at once the chattering in the room went silent.

  Magister Ross’ voice called over the comms, simple copper vents that ran through the ship. Her voice was amplified by some magistry. “Crew, stand to battle stations. Prepare to surface. Professor Rycroft, to the bridge.”

  All at once, the drunken revelry ended. The crew, professional as ever, hurried out of the mess hall to their posts. I was dumbfounded, of course; we were underwater, what could possibly be attacking us? If we were being attacked, why would we surface? Furthermore, what help could I possibly be?

  Tiffin and Decan followed me to the bridge, and though they were not called there, nobody objected to their presence. As I entered, the top half of the Concordance had risen above the river surface, and streams of water were running down the glass. We were surrounded by thick foliage in a jungle of sorts. There were trees larger than any I’d ever seen, their roots running in craggy paths along the jungle floor, and their branches stretched high into the sky, choking out all but the faintest moonlight.

  A thick, shimmering mist drifted over the ground and river, making it difficult to see. However, the immense fog lights of our ship were focused on a point about a hundred yards away.

  There, on the bank of the river, was the wreckage of a large sailing ship. It had run aground, and listed so far sideways that its sails were caught in a tangle of vines and branches. The hull was breached on the port side, and there were black markings on the edges that seemed to indicate it hadn’t gotten this way through some unfortunate accident.

  As the Concordance neared the wreckage, the bridge was dead silent, only punctuated by the turning of knob and hiss of steam through the air vents as the ship collected fresh air for a future dive.

  As we moved to within a few dozen yards, and our lights zeroed in on the side of the ship, I realized why I’d been called up. There, on the side of hull, the ship’s name was emblazoned in thick bronze letters: C.R.V. Trinitus.

  “C.R.V.” meant it was a vessel commissioned by the Celosan Republic. I didn’t need Magister Ross to tell me that the fact that it was here, now, couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.

  “The Trinitus,” I said, my eyes fixed on the wreckage.

  “There’s been no sign of movement aboard,” Ross said, coming to stand beside me. “From the burns on the hull, an accident is unlikely.”

  “They were attacked?” Decan said.

  Ross glanced back at him momentarily, then to me. “Do you have any insight on this, Professor?”

  I stammered for a moment. “Not much, I’m sorry. I know of the Trinitus, it’s a very famous warship. Its captain studied at the Acamedria for a time, though I never really knew him. Numerios, I think his name is.”

  “Numerius,” Tiffin corrected. “Captain Numerius of the Eighth Republic Fleet.”

  I nodded. “There could be survivors. We have to check it out.”

  Commander Talthis had been listening to our exchange. His arms were crossed, and he was leaning against one of the support beams. “With respect, Magister, I strongly disagree. We should dive, and forget this.”

  Ross raised an eyebrow. “That’s unlike you, Commander. What’s got you spooked?”

  “It’s simple pragmatism.” He pointed out at the wreckage. “I reckon that ship there was sent here by the Celosan senate, possibly to attack us—”

  “I don’t agree,” I interrupted. “Maybe they wanted to get to Vor’aj first, but there’s no way the senate would wage war on Endra. It would be suicidal.”

  “Unless they meant to kill us out here, where we couldn’t ever speak about what happened,” Talthis said.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Tiffin said. “You can’t honestly believe that. Celosa and Endra are friends.”

  “Is that so? Then why’s the good professor stuck in our company?” He strolled past Tiffin and gave her a sour look. “Maybe you don’t know as much about your country as you think you do, little girl. The Corelight could give Celosa a significant edge against Endra, and even the best of friends will always want an edge over one another—just in case things go south.”

  Ross didn’t look terribly convinced by this. “That sounds an awful lot like a conspiracy theory.”

  “Well, it’s a damn good one,” Talthis said.

  “Perhaps. Nevertheless, we should assume friendly intentions. They’re obviously in distress. If we can save some, we’re morally obligated to do so. As a magister, I’m oathbound to help those in need.”

  “Your will,” Talthis said reluctantly. “Still… we should exercise extreme caution. Whoever attacked them could still be out there, waiting.”

  “I thought your reports said there weren’t any hostiles in this area,” I said to Ross.

  “Not exactly. They said they didn’t ‘see’ any hostiles in the area. Whatever the case, Commander Talthis is right. We should exercise caution. Commander, you’ll lead the team. Take two magisters with you, and as many warders as you need.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Talthis said.

  “And take Professor Rycroft with you.”

  Talthis gav
e a confused glance my way. “But you said this would be a military operation.”

  “It will be,” Ross said. “But those are his countrymen aboard. If there is an altercation, perhaps he can speak reason to them.”

  “Magister, I—”

  “You mistake me, Commander,” Ross snapped. “I’m not asking. You have your orders, see to them.”

  Talthis gave her a hard look. “Understood.”

  “If the ship is truly abandoned,” Ross continued, “some of the crew might’ve ventured into the surrounding jungle for shelter or food. Look for them thoroughly, but don’t engage any hostiles unless absolutely necessary. If you don’t return within eight hours, we’ll assume the worst and send in the heavy guns.”

  Commander Talthis must’ve been a popular leader amongst the warders, because he was soon inundated with requests to join him on the reconnaissance mission. Many of them were seasoned soldiers, some a great deal older than Talthis, all of whom insisted it would be an honor to work with him. For his part, however, the commander seemed to know exactly who he wanted with him… and who he didn’t.

  I want to be clear that Talthis, at this point, was not overly antagonistic toward me. Rather, he seemed to view me as more of a nuisance than anything. A burden to carry along because his boss told him to. Frankly, this might’ve been the case, as I didn’t know exactly what good I could do even if we found Celosans out in the mist.

  Within two hours, Talthis, along with myself and six large, burly warders, were making our way to the lower levels of the Concordance. Waiting for us at the cargo bay were two magisters, both perhaps only twenty-five to thirty years old. Magister Lias Gereon, a tall, thin man of few words. He was in full combat regalia; for a magister, that meant blue robes, throughout which thin plates of silvery steel covered vital areas—arms, shoulders, the chest, etc. Along the edges of these plates were tiny lines of Deific writing, and I wondered at what magic might’ve been at work to strengthen them.