“I am sorry to call you away from that fight, old friend,” Braemorgan said. “But I’d no choice. Everywhere civilization is assaulted on all sides, and still these crowned jackasses who sit upon the thrones of the world continue to feud amongst themselves! They remain unable to unite against their true enemy, fearful of any rival gaining an advantage. Others are too willing to look the other way, or too scared of what facing the truth might mean! Damned fools, every one of them!”
He paused, puffing angrily on his pipe. Outside, the wind stilled howled and rain lashed the window panes.
“Six months ago I finally obtained an important clue,” he went on. “I captured a dark wizard who was happy to bargain for his life. The truth I learned is the worst any of us could have suspected. All this turmoil is but a prelude to the imminent return of the Son of Kaas, Amundágor himself. He will lead his hordes again and unleash a tempest upon the face of Pallinore.”
“But that’s…its impossible!” Ailric said, stammering. “Amundágor was destroyed, more than a century ago!”
“No, he was not,” Braemorgan corrected. “He was defeated. You’re all familiar with the history, I trust. It began with the defeat of the Evil God Kaas more than a millennium ago by the great hero Anin and his son Mender. Kaas was laid low and driven from this world. Banished forever, it was nonetheless prophesized that Kaas would one day send his sons to spread his dark power over the surface of the world.”
“The Prophecies of Balorus,” Willock said.
“Precisely. And those prophecies came to pass, in time. Kaas’s son Amundágor was born of a woman, one of Kaas’s high priestesses. Evil beings bowed down to him in fanatical worship. Gruks, trolls, and Saurians swore unconditional loyalty to this dark demigod. Wildmen and dark wizards flocked to his banner, as well, and thus was the vile Amundágor Cult born. Amundágor used his power to spread havoc and war across the Southlands in that conflict history records as the Great Southern War. He invaded Llangellan and Brithborea with unnumbered hordes. Amundágor’s invasion, as you know, was beaten back by the very thinnest of margins, and only after a terrible loss of life.
“Amundágor’s rise took us by surprise. Oh, there’d been rumblings of gruk tribes on the march all along the frontier but nothing prepared us for what came. I remember it well, the endless thousands coming down from the passes of the Great Barrier Mountains into Llangellan. Those were dark days indeed, when it seemed like the whole world might fall under the shadow of Amundágor’s dark power. The forces of Llangellan rose up and fought bitterly to hold them back, but they were too few to hold back the tide for very long. The Hill Dwarf Clans from across the Southlands fought besides the men of Llangellan and suffered terrible losses, as well. But every day new allies hurried to their aid. The Knights of Havenwood, the battle lords of the South Marches, and even the King of Brithborea rode to Llangellan’s aid. For once, kings and mighty lords put aside their differences and fought as one. Even the Dwarves of Thunderforge sent all that they could spare, a mighty army that included a young dwarf warrior named Durm Ironhelm.”
Ironhelm said nothing, grunting and taking a long gulp of ale.
“In the end,” Braemorgan went on. “We won. By the edge of a knife, we held on through that first year and beat them back. Reinforcements from Shalfur and Fordinia arrived. Thousands of gnomes from Faerfechan joined the alliance and even Vandoria sent men from across the sea. The elves of Shandorr sent wizards and archers. Even stout warriors of Linlund showed up, among them members of the House of Ravenbane. It was the most terrible of times, and yet it was magnificent to behold how the forces of light united in common cause. The rulers of the realms recognized the threat Amundágor posed, and understood what had to be done. It was even decided to unite all of the armies under a single commander and make a decisive strike at the enemy’s stronghold in the Southern Wilds. We wanted to end the war with one blow, and only one man could lead us in that endeavor.”
“Sir Edmund, Supreme Lord Commander of the Knights of Havenwood,” Sir Ailric said proudly.
“Known to history as Edmund the Eagleblade.” Braemorgan smiled. “Behind him we rallied and took strength from his valor. We won battle after battle under his banner, finally laying siege to the citadel of Amundágor himself and breaking through his gates. Someday Lord Ironhelm will tell you more of those epic times and the mighty battles fought, for he was present throughout. Once inside the citadel we did battle with Amundágor’s minions, creatures of such foul blackness as you can scarcely imagine. Finally, we engaged Amundágor in battle and smote him terribly. He fled the field of combat, mortally wounded. We servants of Une rejoiced, for the evil was vanquished. But that was not the end of the story. No doubt you have heard the rumors.”
“I thought them mere legends,” Ailric said. “Fairy tales to frighten children.”
“They’re no legends,” Braemorgan said. “Amundágor’s high priests brought him to a cave high up in the Great Barrier Mountains. On the back of an ancient dragon he was flown there, the final refuge of the Cult’s power. They removed his black soul from his wrecked body and deposited it into a vessel for safe-keeping. Their plan was to find another host body into which Amundágor’s soul would be deposited. The spell required to call the soul forth from the vessel is so powerful, you must understand, that it can only be cast when both moons are full and directly overhead. At such times are the magical forces across Pallinore at their most powerful. This alignment only happens three times each year, which in this particular case meant that the Cult priests could not re-implant his soul for another two months.
“While they were waiting, the vessel was stolen by the Elves of Sollistore. I do not know why. My influence does not extend to Sollistore and I’ve never been within its borders. We were told they feared the vessel could not be destroyed, that to do so would only release Amundágor to wander the realms of Pallinore taking possession of whatever body he chose. The emissary of the Sollistoreans told me Amundágor would be able to take over the body of anyone at any time, moving on when he was done with his mischief. He could sow chaos and destruction with impunity, possessing kings and great lords. The vessel, the emissary assured me, was secured beyond all threat. The Sollistoreans, you must understand, are immensely powerful so we hoped the vessel would be safe in their hands. Besides, we’d no way of finding the vessel even if we decided to fight them for it. They could’ve hidden it anywhere. We’d no choice but to accept their guardianship of the vessel.”
“Four months ago I met with one of my spymasters in Barter’s Crossing, a man by the name of Heromund who has always provided me with reliable information over the years.”
“Heromund?” Willock asked. “The whiskey smuggler?”
“The same,” Braemorgan said. “He is a man whose business has forged many connections in many shadowy places, as you might imagine. According to his information, the very worst scenario possible is what we now face. The Cult of Amundágor has gotten the vessel back. This vessel is in the form of a single piece of blood quartz larger than the size of your fist and carved into the form of the dagor-syn, an ancient symbol of Amundágor.”
“The dagor-syn?” Ronias asked.
“A dragon’s skull with but a single glowing eye emanating from the center of the forehead,” Braemorgan said. “But, to get back to what I was saying, what I’ve not yet determined is how the Cult knew they would get the vessel back. According to the dark wizard I captured and Heromund’s best information, the Cult only recently took possession of the vessel sometime in the last two months. Yet, for years they have been laying the groundwork for the invasion which will follow in the wake of Amundágor’s return. They’ve been acting as though they knew they would soon have it back, planning and preparing.”
Braemorgan stopped, giving them all a chance to absorb the news.
“How could the Cult get the vessel from Sollistore?” Ailric wondered.
“I cannot be sure. On hearing all this, I left Barter’s Crossing at once. Into the nig
ht I rode west with all haste. For two days I rode virtually without pause, finally arriving at the Gates of Sollistore itself. I stood below the mighty walls and shouted up to the silent guards looking down from their heights. ‘Hail, Elves of Sollistore!’ I said in the ancient Elven tongue still spoken there. ‘It is I, the Wizard Braemorgan. I would gain access to your realm, and speak with your ruler.’ ‘Away, foul wizard,’ they said, with so much audacity. ‘You shall not sully our shining valley by setting so much as a foot within.’ ‘I will be heard, if I have to throw down these walls!’ said I. But despite all my bluster and threats, they would not so much as say another word to me. All I wished to know was how the Cult managed to retrieve the vessel from so mighty a fortress as Sollistore?”
“I can guess,” Ironhelm growled. “They handed it over to ‘em for some bribe of gold or jewels. Damn devil scum, tha’s wha’ Sollistore elves are. Plotters hiding behind tha’ mighty wall of theirs. Aye, tis true.”
“That may yet be shown, in time, to be the case,” Braemorgan said. “But we cannot say that is so with any such certainty at this point. With no answer forthcoming from the Sollistoreans themselves, I turned my horse south, parallel to the Great Barrier Mountains. I made my way along the frontier, determined to confirm for myself what Heromund and the dark wizard had told me. In disguise as a worshipper of Amundágor, I made my way into the wilderness beyond the Glammonfore Gap and eventually beheld their very stronghold.”
Braemorgan leaned over and reached into his satchel. He pulled out a huge parchment and spread it atop the center of the table, pushing platters of food aside
“Here you see a map of the known areas of the wilderness directly to the west of Llangellan,” he said. “These are the mountains and valleys, these are the Nor Marshes, and over here are the White Moors. And here…here is the location of the enemy stronghold.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “That is to be your objective.”
“Wha’ do you mean ‘our objective’?” Ironhelm said.
“That is where the vessel is kept,” Braemorgan said.
“You want to send an army to destroy it,” Jorn said.
“We could lay siege to it,” Ailric said, suddenly excited. “I can raise a thousand knights of Havenwood immediately. Two thousand, if you permit me a few weeks. Surely the woodsman here can prevail upon his king to contribute troops to provide tactical support. We can be ready to march by the end of the month under my banner.”
“Goodness no, my dear knight!” Graymorgan said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “The enemy would simply spirit the vessel away before any sizeable force approached within a hundred miles of their fortress. Stealth is the only way to get back the vessel.”
“Stealth? Ach.” Ironhelm said, shaking his head. “How can you bring an army tha’ far into the Wilderness withou’ being seen?”
“Oh, I’m not sending an army to fetch the vessel,” Braemorgan said, leaning back in his chair and taking a long puff on his pipe.
“Then wha’ are you sending?” Ironhelm said.
“The six of you.”
Twelve
Braemorgan waited a few moments for the furor to die down.
“You wan’ us to steal the damned devil thing?” Ironhelm said. “Tha’s mad!”
“Perhaps,” Braemorgan nodded calmly. “Nevertheless, that is precisely what I propose we do.”
“A force of knights, backed by infantry and archers, could take that citadel,” Sir Ailric said. “The approach through the mountains -”
“I’ve already addressed that. What do you think the enemy will do, my dear Sir Ailric?” Braemorgan scowled. “Do you expect them to just sit there with the vessel and await your army? It would be spirited away to some secret location before any such force even reached the frontier. No, our only hope is in surprise. The sole advantage we have is that the enemy has no idea we know exactly where to find the vessel. A small group possessing the correct skills should be able to approach undetected. Indeed, the vessel is not heavily guarded.”
“Very well,” Ironhelm said. “Let’s say we reach the stronghold. Then wha’ do we do? They won’t le’ us just walk in and grab the damned thing. Aye, tis true.”
Braemorgan produced another scroll, spreading it out over the map. It was a detailed sketch of an immense structure. A large dome rose above the center, surrounded by four small towers at each corner and fronted by a formidable-looking portico.
“This is a drawing of their stronghold,” Braemorgan said. “Look carefully, and you may recognize its origins.”
“That is a Guardian Fire Temple,” Ailric said at once. “I grew up near such ruins along the coast.”
“And your experience serves you well,” Braemorgan said. “This ruin, once upon a time, was the Great Temple of the West.”
“The Cult occupies the Great Temple of the West!” Stormbearer muttered, shaking his head.
“They do indeed,” Braemorgan said. “Now, you will note these ruins look very much like the Great Temple of the East in Moonstar. The dome is exactly the same, right in the center. And there are the towers above the doors, even the pointed arches above the windows are identical. All Guardian temples are built along the same layout. Each is a strong fortress surrounding a circular dome, often of great size, always in the center. Under the dome is the High Sanctuary, where is contained the Sacred Flame of Une. The fortress all around is designed to shield and protect the Sacred Flame. Notice the repetition of the circular form on the towers, as well. Guardian architecture is based on circles symbolizing the eternal, all-encompassing nature of Une.”
“The Guardians,” Jorn said. “I’ve heard tale of them. They were a great order of warrior priests.”
“They remain a great order of warrior priests,” Stormbearer said. “In Vandoria, the Guardian religion remains supreme.”
“The Guardians were, and are, a most curious and important group,” Braemorgan said. “Their temple-fortresses were once found throughout the West, beacons of light and learning in a mostly uncivilized land. They even pushed back the frontier of the wilderness and built several mighty outposts. The Great Temple of the West was the largest and most magnificent of all the temples this side of the sea. The Guardians introduced literature and learning to the West, as well as the art of building on a grand scale. They were great engineers who drained swamps and brought fresh water to cities via magnificent aqueducts many miles in length. Many were their honored accomplishments.”
“But the kings of the West grew jealous of their wealth and power, listening to greedy advisors who whispered of exaggerated treasure hordes and fictional Guardian plots to supplant their rule. So the kings made war upon the Guardians. They were driven from the West. All that remains of them are scattered ruins and rubble. They are now but a mere shadow of what they once were, hanging on to power in Vandoria and the other nations of the East.”
“They still work mighty spells,” Ronias said. It was the first time the elf had spoken since sitting down. “They are not weak.”
Jorn nodded. He’d read about the Guardians, their tragic history and complex ways. It was true what Ronias had said. The Guardians cast powerful spells, both for healing and for combat. A Guardian Priest’s power came from the Sacred Flame kept burning in the sanctuaries of their temples. The fire itself, Jorn recalled, was said to have come down from heaven more than two millennia ago.
The Guardians kept it burning in dozens of locations spread throughout the realms ever since, their lives devoted to making certain it is never extinguished. A Guardian priest could use the power of the sacred flame either to heal or to harm, as he saw fit.
“Alas, there were too few of them when the kings made war upon them for their treasure,” Braemorgan said. “They could only hold out so long. Insidious rumors were purposely spread. They said that Guardians kidnapped peasant children and sacrificed them in bloody rituals. Every child gone missing was declared a victim of these fictitious crimes. The spiteful egged on the ignorant, and th
e Guardians soon lost the support of the peasants. For centuries the Guardians had built hospitals and orphanages for the poor. These same people whom they had served turned on them as they became infected with a viscous hysteria that spiraled out of control. The Guardians found themselves trapped in their strongholds, unable to travel amidst the hostile population. The strongholds fell, one by one, until the few survivors fled back across the sea to Vandoria. To this day, the ignorant repeat many of the slanders then uttered against a noble and pious order. Many a temple was completely torn down in siege, others simply abandoned. The Great Temple of the West is in exceptional condition. After it fell, the valleys of the Great Barrier Mountains that the Guardians had civilized gradually turned back to wilderness. The Cult has since moved in. An abandoned Guardian temple is, of course, an ideal base for them. It is a formidable fortress, designed to protect an inner sanctum.”
“Where we are fortunate is in the fact that the Guardians were, truth be told, rather wealthy, and they used their fortresses to protect their treasure stores. Underneath each temple, they built elaborate catacombs where their dead were interned. Connected to the catacombs are treasure dungeons containing innumerable and fiendish traps of the highest sophistication. The idea was to deter thieves, but they also used the dungeons as emergency escape tunnels. They meant to provide a means of escape for each temple’s Sacred Flame in the event of a siege. Few know of these tunnels, however, even today. The Guardians have always been good at keeping their secrets. In any event, this means that underneath every Guardian ruin is another way inside. The secret entrance always leads fairly directly to the inner sanctum, in order to facilitate the evacuation of the Sacred Flame. It is finding this secret entrance which is difficult, but I knew where I could find the information I required.”
“I learned all I could during my time in the enemy’s camp and then rushed back to Barter’s Crossing. From there, I boarded a vessel bound for Vandoria. I paid for my passage in mighty wind spells that blew us along with all swiftness. Scarcely a week later I found myself at the Great Temple of the East in Moonstar. The Supreme Curate, Sanctus XXI, is an old friend. Within their archives where he showed me some notes by the original architect of the particular temple in question. Regrettably, the original plans were purposely destroyed long ago to preserve the temple’s secrets. The notes revealed, however, precisely the fact I hoped to learn. One half-mile due south of the temple dome, the secret entrance is located directly underneath a small observatory tower now fallen into ruin. As you can plainly see, the temple sits on the floor of a long, thin valley. The valley is surrounded by tall peaks on all sides. Approaching it, however, should be a simple matter. Passing through the Glammonfore Gap here, you will come right upon the ancient road constructed by the Guardians. It runs south along the long valley just past the gap before turning sharply west at the end here. It then rises up towards the high mountain pass right here which leads to your objective.”
Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Page 23
