by Jason Kenyon
‘I am a hero,’ Bartell said. ‘I go where I please, and do as I wish. Warrior, General, Lord, God… this is me, Ardon Forseld. And you are one big lie that has come to its end. Tend your fields in ignominy! There is nothing greater for you now.’
Ardon felt another burst of irritation tighten his muscles. ‘Now look,’ he said. ‘The way you talk, heroics for the sake of heroics are all that matter!’
‘That’s how you operated,’ Bartell said, ‘but you were never a hero. I was.’
‘Delarian was the hero.’
Bartell seized Ardon. ‘Delarian was one of several, you deluded fool! I was a hero just the same! You will not look past me!’
‘From the sound of things, Belias and whatever master he serves have already played your heroics to their tune,’ Ardon said. ‘You think to lecture me? Get out of my sight!’
The spectre of Bartell shook and suddenly there, again, stood Archimegadon.
‘Oh, most commendable!’ Archimegadon said.
‘You can clear off as well!’ Ardon said.
‘But I bring visitors!’ Archimegadon said. He pointed at two figures standing close to one another, both looking up into the darkness at nothing, it seemed. Yet Ardon felt a chill.
‘No,’ Ardon said.
‘Oh yes,’ Archimegadon said. ‘Berus and Kalissa have something they want to show you!’
The scene appeared bit by bit, as though some giant with a paintbrush was working at an insane speed to finish a masterpiece. The icy cliffs atop which Tel Ariel’s altar sat, the last road from Valanthas to Malthair, the glittering snowy mountains on the horizon, the glowing plains of frost, the other wagons, the horses, and then Archie himself…
‘This is it!’ Berus yelled as explosions wracked the tops of the cliffs. ‘We’re all dead! Tel Ariel is going to win!’
Soldiers ran past, heading for a ramp that Ardon presumed led up the cliffs and eventually to the necromancer’s last hideout. The sound of battle was so loud, and the roars of the great Bone Dragon thundered with such force, that Ardon could barely hear Berus at times, even though they were next to each other.
‘We’d win easily if I was there,’ Archie said with a nervous quaver despite his wry smile.
‘I don’t know what is going on,’ Kalissa said. ‘I thought they were just fighting the necromancer. Did he summon an army?’
‘Something’s up there,’ Berus said. ‘Something huge!’
And then Ardon heard it in a slight gap in the battle, a vague instant that might, or might not, have changed things.
The whistle.
Then back came the constant torrent of blasts and yells as the battle with the Bone Dragon continued overhead, and the memories of Berus, Kalissa and Archie did not move an inch, their eyes trained on the explosions. Then Berus nudged Archie.
‘Just think, Archie,’ he said, grinning. ‘We could have been fighting up there, and they could have been sitting here on the wagons all day. Who would have been the heroes then?’
‘Tush, heroics are for fools,’ Archie replied. ‘We are, after all, the ones responsible for them being fit enough to fight. We are the true heroes, unthanked but quite clearly better-looking than those ruffians up there.’
‘I bet you’d love it if you were up there,’ Kalissa said. ‘Gloating rights for life!’
Archie chuckled. ‘I thought you two were worried?’
‘Well, when we’ve come this far, and have that many soldiers and heroes,’ Berus replied, ‘I lose the need to worry. Tel Ariel’s had it, the wily old bastard. I hope they really make him suffer.’
The true Ardon tried to push Berus aside at this point, but the man did not budge at all, not even his clothes, which still felt like material even if they were more stubborn than a thick wall in this bizarre memory. And that was when the first scream arose from amidst the wagons.
‘That was closer to home,’ Kalissa said, noticing much faster than her companions. ‘What’s…’
The faint whistling suddenly blew up into a hiss as over the brim of Tel Ariel’s last outpost flew what at first appeared to be a skeletal cloud, before splitting apart into a torrent of undead dragons, the wind hissing through the holes in their rotten bodies. They dived at separate wagons as though they had each been assigned a specific one. Although one of the dragons had apparently out-raced its companions and attacked early, this had done nothing to speed the reactions of the wagon-runners, who were all out in the open and easy prey.
Archie stumbled and fell on his backside as an undead dragon landed on one horse, snapping the creature’s back, and then crushed the second in its jaws. Apparently this was only for dramatic effect, or to prevent the wagon from fleeing, as the creature hurled the carcass aside without bothering to eat any of it. Instead the undead dragon turned on Archie, who was closest and in no position to flee.
‘Run!’ Archie shouted at the others. ‘Go, get under cover!’
‘Not a chance!’ Berus said, vaulting the fallen Archie and brandishing his dented old family sword. ‘Heroics are for fools, did you say?’
The wagon-runner made to cut at the dragon but with a contemptuous swipe of its claws it took off his right arm and left a hideous gash across Berus’s chest. Making an awful noise Berus collapsed to one side, and his blood drained across the wagon.
The undead dragon turned on Archie…
…and suddenly Kalissa was there, her face completely lost in crazed grief. ‘If you’re going to take anyone, take me!’ she yelled, and the dragon obliged, ripping out her torso and then batting the rest of her through the air.
‘No,’ Archie whispered. ‘I…’
Time stopped.
The true Ardon stood as still as the memory before him, gazing at the undead dragon that had killed his friends and part of his soul.
‘Not much of a friend!’ Bartell said, appearing perched on the undead dragon’s neck. ‘Both of them died for you, Ardon. You know that they planned to marry, and what a wonderful couple they would have made! A poor trade-off, to switch them for you!’
Ardon ignored the spectre’s taunts. ‘This moment,’ he said. ‘This is it, isn’t it?’
Archimegadon flashed into being at his side. ‘Indeed, sir! When you gave up. When you wanted to die. When you rejected your entire life and future.’
‘It is not easy,’ Ardon said, ‘to come back from that state of mind.’
‘And yet you did,’ Archimegadon said. ‘You spent years trudging along like one of the undead yourself. In revenge for your slight after the war you refused ever to dignify the Valanthians with anything resembling kindness, and yet by extraordinary chance in doing all those tedious jobs you made quite a bit of money. And you got back to yourself again. You decided to make something more of yourself and look what you became!’
‘Becoming a mage wasn’t the solution,’ Ardon said, frowning. ‘Replacing feelings with anger was no way to fix the fact that I let two friends die for me there.’
‘Balls,’ Archimegadon said.
‘He’s right,’ Bartell said. ‘False heroics and ineptitude, a charlatan. You are a disgrace to their memory!’
‘Bearing in mind the way I was taught,’ Archimegadon said, ‘I think I did a rather excellent job of being a mage.’
‘You were selfish,’ Bartell said.
‘I never left a job unfinished,’ Archimegadon returned.
‘You were only interested in the money,’ the Lord of Aldrack stated from atop his foul steed.
‘And yet even with payment in advance I still, somewhat reluctantly it is true, went all the way to the thieves’ base,’ Archimegadon said. ‘I could have simply run.’
‘Shut up both of you!’ Ardon said. He pointed at Archimegadon. ‘You are no longer a part of me! Get out of here!’
‘Clearly you have not been watching,’ Archimegadon said. ‘I am you. Becoming a mage did not change you. You were still a borderline-arrogant, rude, cynical old fart back then, and Berus and Kalissa loved you and
died for you because of it! It’s about time you stopped arsing around and ceased pretending to be someone you aren’t!’
‘Ignore him,’ Bartell said. ‘You have a chance to cast aside your flaws and become someone decent.’
Ardon wavered.
‘Don’t you realise?’ Archimegadon asked. ‘If you lose your flaws and turn into someone’ – he shuddered – ‘nice, then you will be like a paladin!’
‘NEVER!’ the true Archimegadon shouted. ‘Damn bloody thinking too much for my own sodding good!’ His peasant smock was replaced by the fine black-and-gold robes his shade had been wearing, and his grey hair came back in force. ‘Enough of this farce! I am no foolish farmhand! I am a mage! A hero!’
The scene unfroze, and the undead dragon opened its jaws and lunged.
‘For I am Archimegadon!’ the Mage for Hire bellowed, and from his hands shot a true Flamebolt, which blasted the undead dragon and Bartell both into ashes, and the vision was wiped out of existence. Colour came back into the world, and the Mage for Hire stood before the Mage Academy’s entrance.
‘Well, there you go, Mister big bloody Sen Delarian!’ Archimegadon said. ‘You and your spell failed to break me! And now, herald my return!’ He barged through the doors and stepped into a decidedly not-red land, which couldn’t possibly be New Valanthas.
He had a visitor, a small old woman.
‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting for you, Master Archimegadon. I am the mage known to you as Antagules.’
Chapter Thirty: Threads
Archimegadon eyed the old woman sceptically. ‘Antagules? The same one who created my old staff, then?’
‘That’s right,’ Antagules replied. ‘My, my, you’re much less handsome in person. I feel short-changed.’
‘Silence, crone,’ Archimegadon said. He looked back at the towering building that he presumed was the exterior of the Mage Academy. ‘I was told leaving here would get me to New Valanthas.’
Antagules nodded. ‘It will. In time. I will take you to the place that will return you to your much-beloved home.’
‘I must say, I thought the creator of my staff would be m…’
‘Male?’ Antagules interrupted with a stern glare.
‘Mighty,’ Archimegadon replied.
‘I’ll have you know I am a very powerful mage indeed,’ Antagules said. ‘I’d be famous if you mages in Valanthas weren’t such useless wasters.’
‘Now look!’ Archimegadon said. ‘We Valanthian mages are the best of the best!’
‘Are you including yourself in that?’
‘Of course,’ Archimegadon replied. ‘I am Valanthas’s foremost mage!’
‘All you can cast is Flamebolt,’ Antagules said.
‘But rather powerful ones,’ Archimegadon said. ‘Now, at least. Although I do miss the staff, it was a grand and powerful addition to my arsenal.’
Antagules laughed. ‘That’s no magical staff.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a magical communication device,’ Antagules replied. ‘I crafted it years ago when I first went into exile along with the Academy.’
‘Exile?’ Archimegadon eyed the innocent green hills warily.
‘I’ll tell you in a bit,’ Antagules replied. ‘What matters is that the man who destroyed the Academy made sure that it would need to be guarded. That duty was assigned to me, but I also needed to keep in contact with the new Mage Academy in Valanthas. To do this I created the Staff of Antagules and was intending to use its twin to speak through it with the leader of the Mage Order, but your current leader, Master Alhamis, condemned my warnings as nonsense and decided to get rid of this staff. So he sent it to a fringe town… to a Mage School.’
Archimegadon knew where this was going. ‘Sen Delarian,’ he said. ‘And I imagine he knew rather better what to do with it, eh?’
‘Indeed,’ Antagules replied, nodding. ‘A talented man, much better than me. He tracked the magical trail between the staffs when we spoke and was able to travel here by magic. Much like you managed to do, but that was a fortunate accident. He studied for days in the Academy… most go mad if they stay there over a day, but not him.’
‘No, he took the magic there and twisted it into his own spell,’ Archimegadon said. ‘His own weapon. It is a testament to my power that I overcame it, although not entirely unexpected.’
Antagules ignored his boasts. ‘He sought out spells and records of all sorts,’ she said. ‘All to do with Vortagenses.’
‘When was this?’ Archimegadon asked.
‘Over five years ago, maybe ten,’ Antagules said.
‘But then…’ The Mage for Hire scratched his head. ‘That ass Belias claimed he had given them the idea.’
‘From what snatches I have caught,’ Antagules said, ‘while Belias did indeed provide the necessary items to start this affair in the last few months, Delarian had the plan growing for years, ever since he went in there.’ She nodded at the ominous Mage Academy. ‘It is filled with His thoughts and powers.’
‘His?’ Archimegadon asked, but Antagules ignored him.
‘Delarian went back to Valanthas after a while, much darker than when he arrived,’ Antagules went on. ‘Upon his return he silenced the Staff of Antagules, so that it pretty much had no power at all. Merely the vague memory of the link to this place, which is what saved you in the end.’
‘So the flamebolts I used to cast were mine?’
‘Yes, feeble as they were,’ Antagules replied.
‘Can I repeat the teleport spell so I can escape from any further sticky situations?’
‘Teleporting takes years and years of perfecting, dearie,’ Antagules replied. ‘What you did was another matter altogether. It’s a bit like gaining great strength when in times of fear and need – not something you can just do whenever you feel like it, in other words.’
‘Bah,’ Archimegadon said. ‘So tell me, crone, how do you know so much about what is going on if you’re cut off here?’
‘I dare visits to that place,’ Antagules replied, with another nod at the Mage Academy. ‘There is a room with a crystal ball that shows snippets and snatches of what is happening in the world at large. Most of it means little to me, as I do not know much of the world outside Valanthas. However, with the time I have free I am able to catch enough. Those three friends of yours, Bartell, Delarian and Belias… they all seek the powers of a God, so they believe.’
‘What is all this about a dead master and some secret power in a tomb?’ Archimegadon asked. ‘As far as I saw the situation, Bartell and Delarian were installing their own kingdom inside the dome. Now I learn there’s a necromancer toying with them in pursuit of supposed godly powers and find that New Valanthas is, to all intents and purposes, a distraction.’
‘It is indeed,’ Antagules said. ‘The enemy wants all eyes on New Valanthas, rather than on Mount Arranoth, where the Throne of Mirrors lies hidden.’
‘Can you answer something rather than create new questions?’ Archimegadon asked. ‘I no longer have a bloody clue what is going on.’
‘Everyone is being played against each other,’ Antagules replied. ‘The enemy has done this to speed things up by making it a race. He also hopes to keep them distracted so that he can resume power with no trouble.’
‘And who is this enemy?’ Archimegadon asked.
‘Why, it is your founder,’ Antagules replied. ‘The first King of Valanthas, Vortagenses.’
*
Obdo had frankly had quite enough. From a vaguely enjoyable life as a farmhand to carrying a demon head across the countryside, being cursed, captured and imprisoned, witnessing the takeover of Bartell and the shaming of Archimegadon, to finding the old mage had been killed… well, there was only so much he was going to bother with. It was time for a change, a big change.
And so he had left the farm behind. Never mind whatever random thing Belias had planned (sounded like a party?), he wanted a new life, or whatever could be made in this dark realm th
at Lord Bartell had created. The plan, pretty much, was to head to Melethas, and from there branch off to the far eastern side of New Valanthas and start over. Not as a farmhand.
This was why Obdo could be found in the Fox and Hart, looking very morose indeed as he prepared for the start of his new journey. There was no tankard to be seen, and the barmaid looked a bit irritated that he had not yet bought anything. Obdo remained oblivious to this, gazing into the fire in a manner that would have reminded him of Ardon Forseld.
His peace was not to last. ‘Obdo, you rascal!’ called the landlord, a fellow with a moustache that swung down about his chins. ‘Been looking for you!’
‘Eh?’ Obdo asked, surprised the landlord remembered such an infrequent customer as himself.
‘Heard you were back,’ the landlord said. ‘Got a message for you! From your cousin, Albarte. He said if you come by here, go and meet him at Melethas, where he’ll be staying for a week, and then he’s going off to Belden. That is, if you’re not already there.’ He frowned. ‘Did any of that make sense?’
Obdo seemed to wake up, standing up suddenly and sending his chair clattering across the floor. With a huff the barmaid put it back in place, deliberately barging the former farmhand as she did so.
‘What did he have to say for himself?’ Obdo asked, suddenly angry as he remembered what Belias had said about them stealing and running for it.
‘He said… don’t trust the boss, uhm, stay away from the farm, or something like that,’ the landlord replied, scratching his hair. ‘Oh, and that he’s gone to try and get help.’
Suspicion arose in Obdo. ‘Did he say why?’
‘He said… oh, I forget! Sorry.’ The landlord gave him an apologetic smile. ‘I can’t remember it being anything useful. He was so drunk I didn’t really take any of it seriously.’
Obdo felt a sudden strength build within him. If the boss, who was presumably Belias, was not to be trusted, then perhaps he had lied about Ardon’s disappearance? It sounded as though he might have lied about his cousins stealing as well. Of course, conversely, they might have been lying, but family ties! No, with hindsight Belias’s behaviour had been slightly odd, with his sneaking off at the tavern, and Ardon’s disappearance in between.
