by JD Franx
Saleece ran to Giddeon’s side, arriving at the same time as Kasik. “Father! Can you hear me? What’s wrong with him?” she asked the Northman.
“That’s a little outside my area of expertise, lass,” Kasik growled. “Shouldn’t you know?”
As Saleece looked into her father’s eyes, she did know. She saw the obsidian black swirls racing across the surfaces of his eyes. Near the ragged edge of panic, she whispered, “He’s having some kind of vision—a premonition, maybe.”
Kasik stared at her. “Is that even possible?”
“I’m not sure. This has never happened before. My experience with prophets is as limited as your own.” But the young apprentice did know, for so many reasons she herself didn’t understand. Giddeon had been plagued by nightmares about the distant past for months now, and she knew in her heart that he was in the middle of a soul-wrenching vision. With everything she had, she prayed that it wasn’t a prophecy he was suffering through, or the man she had come to love as her father would never recover.
Prophets were born, not made. Even the gods couldn’t change that.
The piercing pain seemed to roll on without end. Giddeon wasn’t sure how long it had darkened his mind, but when it finally subsided, it took little time to notice he was no longer in his tower. He stood in the middle of an all too familiar battlefield. Just like in his nightmares, the fighting raged in every direction for as far as he could see. He’d fought in several wars, but never against such abominations as those that walked the field now—creatures unseen since this war, over five thousand years ago.
When one of the monstrosities passed through his immaterial body, Giddeon was even more confused. Something was different this time. Always he had been able to interact with his dreams. He stared in shock as yet another of the hulking demons known as the Lower Brethren took a step to the right, coming to a stop on top of him. With a shiver he jumped back, but still felt nothing.
Jasala Vyshaan’s magical tower loomed over the fray. Unlike Giddeon’s earlier dreams, the tower was fully operational. It shimmered with dark energy as several concussive detonations opened more gates to Hell.
It wouldn’t be long before Giddeon returned to his senses, or his brain shut down under the stress, so he resolved to gather what information he could in the little time he had.
Everywhere he turned, warriors under the banners of countries that no longer existed, and some that still did, fought to overrun the tower. The first familiar flag he noticed was a black-lined, seven-pointed star on a white field: the flag of DormaSai, a country that was still a mystical powerhouse in his own time. He also recognized the old flag of his own country, Cethos, flying high beside that of DormaSai, as men from both countries fought and died side by side, ripped apart by creatures straight from the bowels of the netherworld. Elvehn archers under the banner of Ta’Ceryss, positioned on higher ground, were swept away by winged abominations the likes of which no sane mind could ever fathom.
Wizards, mystics, and even mountain witches unleashed storms of magic unlike anything Giddeon had ever witnessed. Lightning bolts pounded the enemy, while giant spikes of ice and rock exploded from the earth, impaling nightmare creatures that writhed in agony. Giant golems of every creation fought fiends of twisted magic across the blood-soaked battlefield. Dark wraiths ghosted through the melee, their clawed hands protruding from steel and leather armour, claiming the lives of any and all magic users they touched.
One of the most astonishing sights Giddeon’s burning eyes took in was what appeared to be several Elvehn elemental sorceresses discharging miraculous onslaughts of nature magic. Roots erupted from the ground, spinning and twisting around their victims before jagged spikes snapped out, hooking flesh or fur and dragging their prizes back into the earth. Whirlwinds of fire roasted demons until they fell, nothing but ash. The sky boiled with storms, throwing strike after hammer strike of potent energy. In places, a sizzling downpour fell from swirling skies with enough ferocity to strip the scales and hides clean off the enemy. But the Elvehn sisters, like all the others, soon fell under waves of dark warriors.
Giddeon knew the demons’ attackers were doomed. He was witnessing the raw, unrelenting power of a Kai’Sar at the height of her power, a matured DeathWizard ferociously dedicated to the domination and mass destruction of innocents. Nothing could stop her.
He wondered if the DragonKin had been here, wondered had the Fae not gone extinct, whether the outcome would have been any different. For the hundredth time this week, the nauseous feeling that there was no right answer returned.
With a flash of bright, white light and a sharp jolt of physical force, Giddeon found himself somewhere new. He stood inside Jasala Vyshaan’s war room, at the top of her stronghold. He quickly took in the new location’s sights and sounds, not wanting to overlook anything.
In no time at all he discovered that his biggest fear about her age-old legend was a reality. Jasala had two Zakair, one on each side of her. She had mastered enough of the underworld’s powers to summon at least two of the DeathGod’s gigantic personal guardians to protect herself. Created by Dathac himself, these Lower Brethren feared nothing.
Giddeon watched as the DeathWizard shrieked orders to her generals, using a vaporous black magic to activate her summoning glyphs. More cursed horrors jumped from the windows and scaled down the walls to flood the field of battle. The charged air crackling around her was enough to make Giddeon’s skin crawl and his beard prickle, even though he knew he wasn’t physically there. With the last of his strength failing him, he struggled to hold on, hoping to see the end, praying it might give them some hope five thousand years in the future.
But what happened next occurred so quickly that he couldn’t be positive of what he saw. He stared at Jasala Vyshaan and watched as both of her Zakair guardians fell dead to the floor. Jasala’s only words as she herself fell were, “No! Not…”
The very moment Jasala exhaled her final breath, the whole tower heaved as black lightning shot from the rune-engraved ceiling. It blasted its way straight down the six metal rods in the centre of the room, racing into the bowels of the basement. The earth heaved with a sigh of pain before it began to shake with the fury of the gods. The ground cracked and twisted; yawning cracks opened and spread outward from the base of the tower, releasing steam from the depths of the earth. Even though Giddeon was not really there, he felt his connection to the earth torn deep within, realizing that the earth’s magic had been devastated by the Cataclysm. It no longer mattered who was responsible. The source of Talohna’s magic had been irrevocably damaged.
Flashing back to the war room, Giddeon stared at two people, Humans, standing behind each of the dead Zakair. One was a battle-scarred warrior, his features suggesting an ancestry to the Salzarans; the second, a young wizard with facial tattoos similar to those of a Wildland tribe. One of the last things Giddeon saw was a very young, yellow-eyed Elvehn girl standing over Jasala’s body, a dagger in each hand, her dark, velvet mask twisted from an expression of raw hatred. It didn’t last long, for the earth shook in earnest now, and Giddeon was sure that the Cataclysm caused by Jasala’s death had only just begun.
Another crack of energy jarred Giddeon from the war room and planted him on one of the lower mountain peaks miles from the tower. He stood at the edge of a high mountain pass. Looking out to the west, he could see the tower and the land around it cracking open and shifting. The tremors reached him, even where he stood, miles away and thousands of feet up. As far as he could see, Talohna was breaking apart. A tear fell from his eye at the thought of the hundreds of thousands who had died this terrible day.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a young woman dashed past him to stand at the trail’s edge.
“No!” she screamed. “Gods, no, not yet! All those people…” She sobbed and fell to her knees. Dressed in fine Elloryan silk and armoured black-leather leggings, the woman’s stature betrayed her Elvehn heritage. A set of foreign-looking daggers rode in sheaths along the b
ack of her waist, and a thick hood dyed deep black, with intricate runic patterns woven in, concealed her face from him.
But her appearance mattered little as Giddeon felt his strength slipping. Not knowing what else to say, he managed, “I’m sorry.”
To his surprise, the woman spun around, shouting, “I tried to stop it, but I wasn’t fast enough. I—” She stopped short, staring at Giddeon with a puzzled look.
“You can see me?” he asked, stunned.
Her intense yellow eyes were all he could see above the black silk mask, but they bored into his fading mind. “You don’t belong here. Who are you? How did you get here?” She lunged at him, but he was already fading from sight.
As pain and darkness swallowed Giddeon, he tried desperately to hold on to all he had been shown. He wondered briefly if the Elvehn woman was related to the maiden who had killed Jasala Vyshaan. The girl’s eyes, and the daggers she had used to eviscerate the DeathWiard, were identical to those of the woman on the mountain pass. Though Giddeon couldn’t grasp their meaning, his mind locked on those gore-dripping daggers. One of them had a broken wooden blade.
Chapter Three
All wizards who attend the University of Magic have learned the history of the last Kai’Sar to reach magical maturity. Her name was Jasala Vyshaan. After nearly destroying Talohna, the Lost Years following the Cataclysm were a desperate time for all. As the death toll climbed, keeping track of historic events was the furthest thing from anyone’s mind. Much history was lost forever because of it.
GARREN SALLUS, THE WIZARDS’ COUNCIL
4999 PC
CASCADE CITADEL
CORYNTH
As light beat the darkness back, Giddeon woke to find himself in his own bed, in his own time. Saleece bent over him, doing what she could to bring down the fever raging inside his body. “Father,” she said. “What happened? Are you all right?”
“You know it will take more than a soul-destroying vision to end my life,” he joked, hiding the hurt. “You had better ask Kasik to gather the others. We must talk before we meet with the King.”
“Yes, Father.” She turned to leave.
“Saleece, wait. How long have I been gone?” he asked.
“Gone? You were here the whole time.” Her voice heavy with worry, Giddeon winced as she studied him for signs that the vision had caused lasting damage, not realizing yet that what he’d experienced were events of the past.
“Never mind. How long until the King’s meeting?”
“An hour yet. I’ll get the others.” With a twirl of her long green robes, she was gone.
Giddeon rose, taking care not to push himself too hard, and washed his face in a bowl of cold water that had been placed on his nightstand. When he finished, he went to await the others in his study. He didn’t even know where he’d begin.
Oripar was the first to arrive, his long hair loose at this early hour, crimped from the day-long ponytail, but tidy as ever. Saleece returned with Kasik just as Brother Donis arrived carrying a tray of several sausages, a knot of bread, and a fistful of cheeses, his grease-stained white robe trailing on the floor as he waddled in. A man of middle age, Brother Donis reminded Giddeon of the roly-poly frogs he and his sister chased when they lived near the wetlands as children. If not for the two wiggling arms and two stubby legs, the priest would have rolled away. Regardless of his appearance, Donis Kincaid was a highly respected priest of Cortina, the goddess and Mother of All Prophets. No one alive knew more about prophets and their history than he did. Granted the title of Prophet Master many years ago, Donis was devout and loyal to the oracle goddess, despite his impish sense of humour and ravenous appetite. “Giddeon! Oh my, I knew I felt Her here, old boy… You have been dancing with my Lady. You make an old priest jealous, ArchWizard.” Donis smirked, as if already knowing what Giddeon was going to say.
“Feels more like dancing with an ice giant, Donis. One with an obsession for the tender part of my brain,” Giddeon complained, still a long way from feeling himself.
The priest nodded eagerly. “Now, now, you old magic twister,” he ribbed. “It’ll pass. Stop playing the baby and tell us what you saw. Come, my lady hasn’t touched anyone in a long, long time. Out with it! You might not be getting any older, but I am,” he laughed, his triple chins and triple-rolled belly jiggling in time.
Giddeon took a deep breath to clear his head and told them of his vision—everything he’d seen, what he’d felt, and most importantly, the fear, horror, and desperation he’d witnessed. For close to an hour he spoke, making sure everyone understood and answering all their questions to the best of his ability. As the meeting with the King approached, they agreed there was only one option. Even so, none of them wanted to voice it.
Kasik was the first to break the silence. “It’s time. The King will be ready. Let’s just hope he agrees.” Solemnly, they headed for the King’s meeting chamber, accompanied by the ArchWizard’s apprentice. The only other advisers present would be King Bale’s uncle, the Cethosian Magistrate, His Honour, Kanova Bale and the First Pillar of Rule, the Knight. The king’s personal bodyguard shadowed King Bale’s every move. The other five Pillars would only be notified when a decision had been made, their support was guaranteed.
Upon entering the chamber they bowed to the King, who interrupted, “Come now, let’s not stand on etiquette. We’ve more important matters to attend to, have we not? Giddeon, Kasik tells me you’ve had a vision. This presents some serious ramifications for our current dilemma, does it not?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” answered the ArchWizard.
“Call me Joran while we are here, Giddeon. You have known my family since before my grandfather was born, have served as Archwizard for him and my father as well as now. Speak freely,” he said, gesturing to everyone else present. “All of you, please speak your minds.”
To no one’s surprise, Brother Donis was the first to take the King up on his offer. “Well Joran, we all pretty much agree on what must be done. Giddeon might as well tell you what my Lady revealed to him, then explain what we hope you will agree is our only solution,” he rattled off as quick as he could while plucking a chunk of sausage from the table, rolling it in sweetbread and dipping the whole thing in honey. The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the food went in. “Whaff?” he asked when he noticed the others staring. “Voory hongry.” He swallowed. “You expect me to starve just because we have to save the world? Not this priest,” he grunted, turning back to the food on the table.
“Would someone like to explain to the King just what in the halls of Perdition you mean to say?” barked the Magistrate. Not known for his patience, his scowl centred on the always-hungry priest.
“Saleece,” said Giddeon, “will you explain what Brother Donis told us this morning?”
“Yes, Master,” she said. Turning uneasily, she addressed the King. “The vision that Master Giddeon experienced wasn’t a prophecy, but more like a memory of a historic event. Brother Donis tells us this happens when the Lady Cortina, the oracle goddess, and her sister, Aleace, the goddess of time, work together. It’s dangerous and painful, but there have been a couple of cases documented like it before. It is a serious and very rare warning handed down directly from the gods to mortals.” She relaxed a little as the King and the Magistrate exchanged looks. Unmoving in heavy plate armour, the Knight said nothing.
“Tell us what you saw, Giddeon,” King Bale ordered.
The ArchWizard told his tale for a second time. As before, he didn’t bother to mention the young women with yellow eyes or the broken wooden blades each carried. The complications... were for another day.
“Mylla’s breath,” the King stammered. “That is the most vivid account of the final battle against Jasala Vyshaan I think I’ve ever heard.” He had sat through the entire tale, asking few questions as Giddeon recounted what he’d witnessed.
Giddeon shivered. “You should try being there, Your Majesty.” He grabbed a drink from the table to moisten his
dry mouth, adding, “Is there anything you would ask of me?”
Rubbing the back of his neck, the King shook his head. “Where to begin? We know that the Northmen closed Tyr’s Shield, what, almost two months ago?”
Giddeon sat down at the table beside Brother Donis. “Yes, but we don’t know why. Even your Fourth Pillar couldn’t get info past the gate. Emissaries from the Wizards’ Council were turned away without being given a reason as well.”
Pouring himself a cup of tea, Kanova Bale snorted. “Ours as well. They were given no real answers, just that the High King had ordered it after they were attacked. The Spy is still trying, a Pillar of Rule has options we don’t, not officially. Perhaps you have something to add, Kasik. They are your people, after all.” His tone made it clear it was more than a request.
“The High King would only order the Shield closed if the island were under a serious threat of invasion. One that could result in a foothold of the Quay,” Kasik explained, referring to the miles of docks lining the inner bay of Kastalborg Island. “With the Shield shut, the mountains along the coast will protect them, the Shield is the only way in at the best of times. We won’t find out exactly why until it’s opened again.”
“Perhaps you can venture a guess as to the nature of this invasion,” the King pressed. “The High King is not known to hide behind Kastalborg Island’s defences. That massive bronze-forged gate hasn’t been closed in modern times, yet neither has the island been successfully invaded; your people fight off the Orotaq all the time. What threat could possibly be worst than them?”
“Magic, Your Majesty. Magic is the only threat that my people would barricade themselves against rather than engage in open battle. We don’t use it, and have little defence against it. The few Ama Taugr left would have been deep in the mountains at their retreat. Besides, I doubt a handful of rune-casters would’ve made a difference.”
