By the time Graelyn retreated, Kaldor and Valkrage had already surrendered their power to Aaron and were now trapped in their mortal bodies. The only thing that kept the avatars alive so long were the final remnants of a very deep, very subtle connection to their greater selves, the sleeping Dragon bodies buried in Dragonholm.
But even worse for the world, it meant that Aaron had only been given the power of two Archdragons. A thousand years ago, their plan had failed. One thousand and thirteen, if one precisely counted. Valkrage always precisely counted.
A faint glow shone in the distance and then disappeared. A great column of light descended from the sky, tiny and far away, touching the horizon in the center of Dragonholm before it too faded. A moment later, Valkrage’s knees swayed and a piercing ache stabbed his heart. He fell forward, catching himself on the balcony rail. He clutched at his breast and gasped, knowing what this meant. The body of the Violet Dragon was destroyed, presumably Archurion’s as well. His last hope of leaving this mortal shell and returning to the fullness of Eldrikura vanished. He wondered if Kaldor could feel the same thing, locked away in his tower outside of time. He felt the pressure of Klrain’s mind diminish and fade. After forty days, Aaron had finally won.
Valkrage frowned. Graelyn’s mind too could no longer be felt. She had awakened to help Aaron fight—she should have survived.
The brilliant nighttime skyline of Artalon winked out as all of Karanos’ runes on the city lamps lost their source of power—Aaron’s divinity. Valkrage’s heart broke, and a cry of anguish heaved from his gut. He knew Aaron was dead. He had known all along the God-King could not survive the task of channeling the full might of a god. Valkrage had kept this knowledge secret within the depths of his heart so Aaron would not falter. This was Valkrage’s greatest sacrifice, which hurt more than the guilt from the horrors he had inflicted on the free peoples of the world as he subjugated them to the Church. It had all unfolded as he had planned. Aaron was the instrument, but Valkrage saved the world. That didn’t make the hurt of his loss any less.
Valkrage alone architected their salvation. Kaldor had no part in it. When the Green Dragon abandoned her vessel, the sidhe wizard knew they needed to find another power for Aaron to wield, for they now lived on borrowed time. Archurion’s and Eldrikura’s greater minds had dissolved when their power was conferred upon Aaron. Klrain could now awaken. No one could tell how long that would take, for dragonsleep was long even without magical reinforcement. It could have been decades. It could have been centuries. They needed to prepare, and Valkrage saw a way to give Aaron the power he needed.
So the Archmage forged the Empire around his Champion. He made Aaron into the central figure of an old myth, and bent the Archurionite Church to his worship. It was Aaron who raised the lost Artalon from the depths to be his seat of power, but it was Valkrage who made him into a god. How? He couldn’t quite remember. Odd.
Kaldor opposed Valkrage’s plan, not willing to impose the cost of servitude on the mortal races. Valkrage banished him outside of time so he could not interfere. Where? He couldn’t quite remember.
But his plan had been successful. What plan?
Valkrage had been right. Aaron had won because of him. It was all him in the end. Klrain was dead.
My, isn’t the city dark? Just shadows of towers…
Why couldn’t he feel Graelyn? Why did she not come for him?
No. There was something else. Something still undone. Something more he must do…
He couldn’t remember.
Aaron had become Karanos, the resurrected incarnation of a dead god.
How?
He shook his head. He couldn’t remember.
Kairantheum.
What did that mean? He should know. It was important.
Kairantheum. Divine space-time. The place in which gods held their being.
But what about it?
He couldn’t remember.
He clutched his temples. A throbbing pain grew behind his eyes.
He shuddered in horror and realized why key memories eluded him. His psyche was a coherent integration of Eldrikura’s dreamwalker and the mortal elf Valkrage. Now that the Violet Dragon was destroyed, the parts of him that came from her started to fade, bit by bit. A fragment of his mind had dissolved. He felt the slow deterioration begin in the draconic structures of his psyche. He didn’t know how long he had, but all that would survive would be the fractured remnants of his elven mind, long ago overwhelmed by her.
He was going mad.
25 - Darkfall
They sat together at the kitchen table in their apartment above the bakery. None of them spoke. A half-eaten loaf of bread lay on the table between them, crumbs scattered unmoving over the tablecloth. The fourth seat now stood empty. The plate in front of it held the remnants of three slices of bread, the whites eaten and the crusts left behind. The last sign of his son’s presence in their house. The silence seemed to take a loudness of its own, crushing down on the room. Magda wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“I don’t understand,” Keira finally spoke. “Why did they have to take him?”
Jorey shook his head. “He’s been called to a special life,” he said. “He will be very close to Karanos.”
“Oh,” she said. The single word clipped short. Its note held such a tone of sadness.
“Do you know where they took them?” he asked Magda.
She shook her head despondently.
“Maybe you could ask Bayard,” he said. “He might listen to you.”
She glanced up at him with a strange look in her eye.
“One of us has wolven in our past,” she said.
“Not me,” he responded. “At least, I don’t think I do. It doesn’t matter who.”
They both looked at Keira. Just over three more years and she would be thirteen, too, the age when the wolven curse would first show itself, if she had it at all. It could lie dormant and skip many generations—there was no telling.
“I’m going for a walk,” he muttered, pushing back from the table.
“But the curfew!” protested Magda.
“They took our son!” he snapped. “I don’t care about the curfew right now!”
He stomped down the stairs to the bakery and opened the front door. The plaza outside was lit blue by the rune lamps in the streets. It was empty except for two Templars at the far end, walking their nighttime patrols.
He stepped outside, wondering if they would challenge him. Well, he didn’t care, he thought angrily. Let them say something.
He quickly thought better of it and hurried back inside before they noticed. No use in making a bad situation worse. He didn’t want to be taken away from his daughter or his chance at another child with his wife.
Magda had come downstairs and was standing amid the customer tables. The blue light from the outside lit up her skin in an unearthly glow. He thought she looked particularly pretty.
“Came to your senses then,” she said, arms crossed over her chest.
“Yes,” he answered. He paused. Then he continued slowly, “Maybe we should consider another child.”
She glared at him. “Now is not the time to be having this conversation!”
“I know, but—”
The lights went out. Not just the dim glow shining down the stairwell from their upstairs apartment but the streetlights, too. Every light on the platform. He looked out the window and only saw stars and the silhouette of buildings.
“No lights,” Magda said. “No window lights.”
She was right. It was more than just their plaza. No light shone in the skyline of Artalon, not from his tower or any other. It was dark. Only far below in Dirt City could a conventional torch be seen here and there. The people in Dirt City didn’t live solely by runes as they did in the towers, but their street rune lamps were out, too.
“Oh, Karanos!” Magda whispered. “What do you think this means?”
“Mommy, Daddy!” Keira frantically called from upstairs
. “I can’t see! It’s too dark. I’m scared!”
Jorey told his wife, “See if you can get her and bring her down here. At least there’s starlight outside. I’m going to ask those Templars what’s going on.”
Magda felt her way to the back of the shop, disappearing into the shadows. “It’s okay,” he heard her call out. “Mommy’s here. I’m coming to get you. Just keep talking to me so I can find you.”
He opened the door and walked across the plaza to where he had seen the Templars.
“Hello!” he called out. “It’s Jorey! Hello! Why are the lights out?”
“Ho there!” one of the Templars called out. “Stay there. We’re going to try to find out. We’re having a hard time seeing. Our light-sticks won’t light either.”
He gradually heard more voices as other shop owners and residents made their way out onto the plaza. He walked back to the front of his bakery. “Magda, are you there?”
“I’m here,” he heard her say from close by.
“Can you take my hand?” he asked.
He felt fingers fumble against his as their hands clasped together. “We’ll be okay,” he said. All he felt was dread.
“The runes have failed,” she said, putting a name to his dread. She moved close to him and whispered. “Why isn’t Karanos giving us his power?”
“Shh,” he whispered. “Don’t let the Templars hear you question Him. There must be a good reason.”
The din grew louder as people started talking. Neighbors called out to identify each other by name. He heard a slow panic growing.
“Nothing’s working!” one said. “None of the runes!”
“My water’s not running,” another said. “None of the prayers will get it started.”
The Templar’s voice rang above the din. “Everybody stay calm,” he shouted. “It seems the lifts aren’t working either. We’re going to try to get help, but you all will stay here and wait for instructions.”
Magda’s arm circled Jorey’s waist and held him close. He pulled her and Keira into an embrace, never wanting to let them go.
“What do you think it means?” she asked, laying her head on his shoulder.
He listened to the hushed chatter around him. None of the runes responded. Karanos’ bounty was dry. “I don’t know,” he said. “Surely the God-King will restore the runes soon. He must. We don’t know how to live without Him.”
The night passed and no one slept. The runes were still silent when the sun rose in the morning. Dawn’s light gradually built, and he saw the shadowed, scared faces of his customers, neighbors, and friends. The Templars were nowhere to be found.
“Arlen!” he said, suddenly. “Where did they take him? He didn’t leave until last night. Maybe he’s still in the tower!”
Captain Bayard entered the plaza with five of his Templars. A portion of the crowd descended upon him with questions, Jorey among them.
“What’s going on?” “Why aren’t the runes working?” “Is there any word from the Tower?” “Is my son still here?”
Bayard turned to Jorey first. “Your son left on a sky car before the runes went quiet,” he said. “He is safe and far from here by now. Maybe that part of the city still has power.” He turned to the crowd. “We’ve sent runners out to the other towers to try to ascertain the situation,” he called out loudly. “As of right now, we know little, other than that the runes don’t seem to be responding to prayers.”
“Is the God-King mad at us?” a woman questioned.
The Templar held his hand for silence. “Surely not,” he said. “We have been a faithful city, and we are a faithful tower. I fully believe He will make His will known in time. Until then, I urge patience. We have food.”
“We don’t have water!” someone else said. “My pipes won’t flow.”
“We have some water until the rain cisterns run out,” he reminded them. “Even after that, the original gnomish systems will still provide something. There is no immediate danger. As I said, we’re trying to get word, but with the lifts and air skiffs not working, it will take some time. Be patient. For now, if this is indeed a test of our faith, I suggest we pray.”
“That’s your suggestion?” Jorey snapped. “We sit around and pray? The runes aren’t responding. My son is out there, Karanos knows where!”
“Your son,” Bayard retorted sharply, eyes flashing in anger, “is no longer your concern.”
Jorey backed down. “Of course, you are right.” He walked dejectedly back to his family.
Magda looked at him with expectant eyes. He shook his head and shrugged. “They want us to pray.”
But the runes did not answer their prayers that day or the next. They started to speak of the moment the runes failed as “Darkfall”. People shared what they needed the first few days, but by the third, patience wore thin. They hoarded their supplies, parting with something only if the person who needed it could trade. Those who were without quickly realized that their future looked bleak. Squabbles broke out, small at first, but then open arguments and fists became commonplace.
Some maintained the prayer watch, and a rift of anger grew between those who kept the vigil and those who tried to solve the problem of meeting their immediate needs of food and sanitation.
By the fourth day, water ran out. The gnomish infrastructure had been clogged with rune-engraved improvements over time. Very little of the original design functioned. Jorey had thought to store some water in skins in the first days, saving them for when he knew the inevitable would happen. He locked his front door and hid with his family in the house, watching from the second floor windows.
Six days after Darkfall, a riot broke out. The mob stormed over those maintaining the prayer vigil and grabbed the Templars. He saw Captain Bayard struggling, being dragged away with his lieutenants. Without their rune-powered weapons and spells, their authority meant little. The mob took them to the edge of the platform and threw them over into the abyss. He heard their screams fade as they fell. He could not hear their impact at the end, over eight hundred feet below.
He turned to Magda. “We’re leaving,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time before they come for us.”
“Where will we go?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But we can’t stay. Dirt City will have supplies.”
She gasped, pulling Keira close to her. “They are thugs! Barbarian foreigners! It’s not safe down there.”
“It will be no worse than here,” he said. “Maybe better. They know what its like to not have their every need provided for by Karanos’ grace.” These last words twisted in his mouth with a bitter taste.
She nodded and went to their bedrooms to pack a small bag.
Jorey took one of his large kitchen knives and tucked it under his belt. It would cut someone just as well as it cut food. Then he went to his back closet and unlocked a wooden chest that held his prized possession. A single-barrel, break-action shotgun.
“Where did you get that!” she cried in shock when she saw it. “That’s forbidden!”
“Templar law is the least of our concerns now,” he said. “My father passed this to me before he went to the monastery, in case it was needed one day.” He opened the gun at its hinge and loaded a shell into the back of the barrel. He closed the gun and regarded the weapon with satisfaction as he settled into a grim sense of calm focus. He offered a prayer of thanks for his father’s foresight—a prayer to whom?
There were only two things that mattered. Get his family to safety, and then find his son.
They left the bakery, moving quickly across the inner wall of the platform, hoping to avoid attention. The mob didn’t seem aware of their presence. They had fallen into a shocked stupor, stunned at what they had done to the Templars. They waited for a divine retribution that would never come.
Jorey was thankful for the timing, for had they waited any longer the mob might have rallied and descended on his family, too. The pack he carried looked suspiciously full, and indeed he ha
d his water skins hidden away.
Shotgun in hand, they reached the southern stair column. Others from other levels had the same idea, apparently, for clumps of people moved furtively down the stairs, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. They gave him a wide berth at the sight of his shotgun, and the three of them made their descent into the lower levels of the city.
* * *
Valkrage brooded over the dark city skyline from the palace balconies. His apartments were not without light, of course, for his magic did not come from the God-King. He was pleased to see now that at least some of the tower communities had made fires on their pavilions, feeding them with pieces of furniture or whatever else they could muster. But those were small areas; most of the city remained dark.
He felt pity for them. He had made them dependent on Aaron’s power. Aaron truly had become a god, with the ability to grant runes that allowed people to channel his own connection to the divine. But it had all been at Valkrage’s behest, and it had taken him two centuries to convince Aaron to allow the Church to promote his divinity.
In truth, to say he convinced Aaron was not entirely accurate. He took advantage of the fact that the human mind could only hold so much memory at a time. Even though Aaron’s body had been made immortal by the two Dragons’ essences, his brain still faced the limitations of human biology. At about two hundred and fifty years, earlier memories faded, and Aaron relied on the high elf to tell him what had happened before. Over time, Valkrage found him easy to manipulate.
He felt sorrow, but he didn’t regret his actions. He knew the price. He knew the cost would be the life of his companion, the enslavement of the Nine Realms, and even worse, the suffering of the Empire once it collapsed after fulfilling its purpose. With the God-King dead, there was no more power for the runes to channel. Aaron wasn’t like other gods. As Karanos’ incarnation, he was still finite, limited to a single body. When he died, Karanos died.
When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set Page 25
