The quest was uncharacteristically somber since Boen’s departure. While they might have chided the big Gaimosian for his singular mindset, he was the anchor that kept them moving. Bahr had grown increasingly silent as the days progressed. The loss of Maleela and his expected confrontation with his brother plagued him more than he was willing to admit. A man unused to answering for his deeds, the Sea Wolf harbored all of the hurt and pain since being arrested in Chadra and kept it for his own. Not even Anienam correctly guessed the reasoning. Quiet, Bahr drove them ever eastward, towards the ruins of Arlevon Gale.
Everywhere they went were scenes of violence. Burned homes. Slaughtered animal carcasses. The occasional body partially buried in the snow. Whatever games the rebellion and loyalist soldiers were playing seemed confined to the far western stretches of Delranan. They feared that Skaning and his cutthroat band of mercenaries had already gotten ahead and were terrorizing their way across the kingdom in efforts to prevent the quest from finding safe harbor.
Sitting atop the horse they’d acquired in exchange for their broken down wagon, Anienam made a show of yawning and accidentally reaching over and slapping Skuld on the shoulder. Blind, he grinned at still being able to outsmart the former street thief. Their relationship was rocky at best, though nowhere near as turbulent as his and Bahr’s. Anienam often found mixing with normal people mundane and difficult. He attributed that to growing up in the shadows of the last Mage. Magic was forbidden in many parts of the world and frowned upon in the rest. Only the Elves continued their practice in the arcane arts, though what really happened in their hidden forest cities remained the subject of much speculation.
“I swear you’re not as blind as you claim,” Skuld chided. His tone was playful.
Anienam laughed, a tormented cackling sound. “You doubt the handicapped? Not very polite of you, young one. Why, in my day I was taught to respect my elders. My father would turn in his grave if he heard you just now!”
“What happened to your father, Anienam?” Skuld asked. “We all know he was the last of the Mages but you never said what happened.”
The wizard fell uncharacteristically silent. He’d never spoken about Dakeb, his father, to anyone before. Doing so was always so complicated in his mind. He seldom viewed the past with fondness. There was too much pain in Dakeb’s life for Anienam to enjoy the memory of what his father had been. Who he was, however, was an entirely different matter. Anienam decided that he didn’t need to shoulder the burden on his own any longer, not if he expected Skuld to step into his shoes when the time was right.
“Dakeb was…a different sort of man. He was the last of the old breed. A guardian of the collective hopes and dreams of the entire world. Not any easy task for anyone to take on, young Skuld. Malweir knew him as a true Mage, but he was so much more. Did you know he was the one responsible for taking the four shards of the crystal of Tol Shere and hiding them once the war ended? Few did. Of course Sidian eventually discovered them and attempted to release the dark gods from their prison years later. The Silver Mage failed and the crystal was ultimately lost to the other dimension.”
Eyebrows scrunched together as Skuld tried to piece important, or what he thought were important, elements of the grand tale together, and the young thief shook his head. “I don’t understand it.”
“Understand what?”
“The need for crystals and stones. You said something about an Olagath Stone to Bahr earlier. Now this talk of a crystal. Why would beings as powerful as gods fear something so simple as a stone?”
Anienam’s sense of pride increased as Skuld tried to flesh out the center of the entire tale. “Gods aren’t as powerful as you might assume. What is the quickest way to kill a god?”
“I don’t know,” he replied after a few minutes of thought.
“Stop believing some might say, but it is more complicated than that,” Anienam answered. “Gods need us to believe in them. Our faith gives them power and the ability to manifest in greater, different forms. Take away that belief and they are considerably weakened, but not dead. Long ago, or so the histories tell us, the gods were born from stone and rock, water and fire. They stored immeasurable power in Malweir, drawing on it as the ages sped by. Never underestimate the strength buried within the stone at your feet.”
“Wouldn’t doing that keep the gods from becoming more? From reaching their full potential?”
“Indeed. It was as damning as it was meant to be liberating. The greatest scholars theorize that’s the source of the schism between light and dark. The dark gods wanted to pull their power from the ground while the gods of light sought to keep it buried, for all life on Malweir benefited from it. What started as debate quickly devolved into brutal warfare that continues on to this day,” Anienam explained.
“What is the Olagath Stone?” Skuld asked.
“A token of extreme power. There are several scattered across the world. Groge’s Blud Hamr is one. Phaelor, the star silver sword, is another. The very wisest of our races learned the ancient secrets. Some say it was the gods of light who allowed it. I do not know either way, but the lore masters studied and developed their strengths around the power of the gods. Once the war became evident, a council was founded, in Averon. There the leaders of the free world met to decide what to do should the gods bring their war down from the heavens.
“It was decided that a series of stones would be created. Each stone would be capable of power undreamed of. They could confine the gods or release them. You see, the lore masters might have been highly skilled but they were not gods. Their knowledge of the power was rudimentary at best. The stones were flawed. Only one survived the creation process.”
“The Olagath Stone,” Skuld finished.
“Yes. It alone has the ability to free the dark gods from their prison or keep them confined for eternity,” Anienam said with a smile.
“Through the Blud Hamr.”
“Very perceptive. I grow more impressed with your development daily, my young friend,” Anienam complimented. “While each stone was intended on being all powerful, it was also realized that there was the potential for corruption. Even then there were subversive races at work in Malweir’s shadows. Weapons were forged to counter the power of each stone. They too have all been destroyed over time. The Mages were partly responsible for hunting down and removing the weapons from the world.”
“I don’t understand why though. Wouldn’t each weapon be a powerful item to withhold? It seems to me that there is more evil than good in the world. We need all of the tools we can get if we’re going to win this war, Anienam.”
“Yes and no. The weapons were specifically tailored to their stones. Without the stone to draw power from, the weapons were all but useless. The orders of Mages couldn’t take the risk of some dark sorcerer discovering long-forgotten secrets of the weapons and actually finding a way to turn them evil. The weapons needed to be destroyed. So it is that only the Olagath Stone and the Blud Hamr remain. Should we lose Groge or the Hamr, we are lost.”
Silence fell over the wagon. Skuld tried, and failed, to digest what he’d heard. There was nothing natural about the direction his life had taken. Wizard. Magic. Gods. He was just a common thief until a few months ago when he overheard Dorl and Nothol talking about treasure in the Murdes Mountains. Skuld allowed his dreams of overcoming abject poverty to get the better of him and he stowed away on Bahr’s ship. Nothing would ever be the same from that moment. Ever. Skuld was faced with many decisions to make regarding where he wanted to take his life. Few of them were good. All he knew was there was no going back to Delranan. That life was finished.
“Anienam, can we succeed?” he asked.
“I want to believe in my heart that victory belongs to us,” Anienam replied. His voice turned soft. “It will not be easy, or pleasant. Some of us will not live to see the results of our efforts. A sad fact, but an inevitable one. The powers arrayed against us will be greater than even I am capable of dreaming of. The Dae’sha
n will stop at nothing to achieve their goal. Even down to three they will not be easy to defeat. This is the final, great battle of age.”
Skuld laughed suddenly, a gentle sound that was more awkward than mirthful. “And no one will ever know who stood there at the final battle. We are nameless heroes, Anienam.”
“Sometimes those are the best kind.”
Ironfoot tossed a small log on the fire. “Another two days. That’s what Anienam says. Two days and this will be decided one way or the other.”
“Doesn’t seem so long now, does it?” Nothol asked as he stared deeply into the licking tongues of red and orange. “We could almost make a vacation out of it.”
“Don’t you dare look at me, Nothol Coll. One more rib and I’ll blacken your eye,” Dorl snapped from his spot beside Rekka.
Nothol grinned sheepishly and held up his hands. “Fair enough. I was just trying to lighten the mood. Besides, you’re getting cranky in your old age.”
Dorl made to stand but Rekka’s lightning-quick reflexes clamped a hand on his shoulder and forced him back down. Despite her actions, the twinkle in her eye suggested she was beginning to appreciate the subtle barbs between the longtime friends.
Dorl wagged a finger at Nothol. “Just wait. You just wait.”
“Your girlfriend seems to agree,” Nothol laughed.
Ironfoot laughed so hard he spit a mouthful of water out. Even Groge enjoyed a laugh. Dorl could only fume harmlessly as the much-needed humor spread around the tiny camp. They’d been missing their greatest military asset, Boen, and struggling with a way to compensate for his loss. Many turned to Groge in the hopes the Giant youth would find his inner warrior and lead them into battle. Dorl was as frustrated as the others but had an outlet, even if it was the naturally taciturn Rekka Jel.
Bahr had grown increasingly reclusive the deeper into Delranan they drove, giving the sell swords cause for concern. He’d been their rock since departing to rescue the princess back in the fall. Whatever personal demons he combated when he thought no one was looking were starting to bleed over into the rest of the quest. Melancholy was as dangerous as enemy steel.
“That felt good. I haven’t laughed like that since the feast after we crushed the dark Dwarves at Bode Hill,” Ironfoot announced. “Dwarves often find humor in battle. It keeps us moving past the grief of loss.”
Nothol said, “Makes sense to me. Let’s hope we’re all still around after this is finished so we can share a good laugh.”
“Wizard, what do we do when we reach the ruins? I can’t imagine our enemies will leave it unguarded,” Ironfoot turned to ask. The Dwarf captain had had his laugh and wanted to get back to business. War wasn’t a topic of general discussion.
Anienam paused as he noticed each of his companions slowly turning to look at him. The looks on their faces were heavier, more troubled, than any other he recalled seeing. Hope clung desperately against the harsh realities closing in around them. Deep inside, Anienam began to question whether he was the right person for this task. The fate of the entire world rested on the shoulders of the handful of collected souls staring back at him. Were they enough? What would Dakeb have done? His father had a knack for collecting assorted characters, forging them into a cohesive unit, and tackling intense evil. Anienam wasn’t his father.
There was no way he’d ever be able to live up to Dakeb’s reputation. The last descendant of the Mages felt his confidence slip, gradually chipping away with each new challenge or setback. He didn’t know how much more he had left to give. Anienam lacked the resources necessary to feel inspired. His companions weren’t hostile but remained cold to his advances. He recognized that he wasn’t an easy person to get along with. Wizards seldom were. Magic continued to leave a sour taste in the world long after the Mage Wars.
Not that he could blame them. He often imagined he’d feel the same way if he hadn’t been adopted by Dakeb when he was but a babe. Instead he’d grown up learning the nuances of magic and how to control his newly discovered abilities. Long decades spent in solitude all boiled down to this last task. One final quest to help right the wrongs committed by magic users since the dawn of time. Anienam Keiss wished it had fallen on anyone else but him. For all of his bluster and bravado, he felt weak inside.
“No, the Dae’shan will have assembled as many dark agents as they deem necessary to protect the ruins.”
“And keep us out,” Nothol added.
Anienam nodded. “And keep us out. Exactly what they’ve collected won’t be learned until we arrive, however.”
“Isn’t there some sort of spell you can cast to give us forewarning?” Ironfoot asked. He folded his burly arms across his chest as he glared at the wizard. Already his mind was racing through potential scenarios.
“That was never my area of focus. I can cast protection spells, the occasional attack spells, but long-distance scrying remains unknown to me,” he replied. “Captain Bahr, what would you suggest? We are but two days’ ride from our final destination.”
Bahr, a distant look in his eyes, casually glanced up from the fire. He hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation. Thoughts of Maleela and Badron and the possible confrontations upcoming twisted his thoughts in unimaginable ways. That he was subconsciously abandoning his friends and allies to deal with their own futures was almost lost. Almost.
Reluctantly, he took a deep breath and answered, “Scouts would be best, but Boen isn’t with us. I don’t know if he will return in time.”
“The Gaimosian will rejoin us, Bahr. That much I know,” Anienam affirmed. “He’s quite resourceful for an ogre-like sort. Vengeance Knights are crude, minimalist beings but their loyalty and devotion to duty goes well beyond any other tribe or race. He’ll be at Arlevon Gale.”
“That doesn’t alleviate our need for quality scouts,” Bahr pressed. “We can’t just go into this situation blindly.”
“I agree,” Ironfoot added. “We need to scout the area first.”
Rekka slowly stood. “I will go, if this task needs to be done.”
“Absolutely not!” Dorl protested.
Rekka offered a thin smile. Her heart wanted to stay with Dorl, for if these were to be their last days alive surely she deserved to die happy, content for the first time in her two decades. The sad truth was the world didn’t care whether one person was happy or not. Destiny and Fate marched to their own tunes, tormenting those caught up in the fervor. Some survived to great glory but eventually all wound up in the ground. Win or lose, Lord Death was stalking them all.
“I am the quickest and quietest of us all. The enemy will not spy me,” she said. “You all know this to be true.”
She forced the memory of her confrontation with one of the Dae’shan in the forests of Rogscroft away. Her guard had been down, despite the heightened caution of fleeing from armed soldiers. How one of the shadow agents of the dark gods managed to come upon her unawares remained a mystery. She’d always thought she’d been trained to deal with them. Her time with the dream masters of Teng and then in Trennaron deceptively allowed her to believe she had all of the tools necessary to ensure the successful completion of this quest. Could she have been mistaken this entire time?
“She’s right, Dorl. Rekka might be the best chance we have,” Nothol told his friend. The words were difficult, even after all the gentle ribbing they gave each other.
The first arrow sliced across the camp, speeding over the fire to strike the nearest pine bole. Skuld cried out. A horse whinnied. Stunned faces had just enough time to look around before the first wave of mercenaries broke through the barrier of darkness.
“Attack!” Ironfoot roared. The Dwarf snatched his axe from the ground at his feet and charged without waiting for the others.
Shorter by far, Ironfoot ducked under an ill-timed swing and took one of the mercenaries just below the knee. The severed limb flopped to the ground an instant before the screaming man. Blood dripping from his axe, the Dwarf brought a heavy boot down on the wound
ed mercenary’s throat, crushing his windpipe. Another sword aimed for Ironfoot’s head. The Dwarf barely managed to bring his axe head up to block the blow. Locked in the dual blades, the sword was instantly rendered useless. Ironfoot twisted hard enough to jerk the weapon free and punch the mercenary in the chest with his axe head.
A third attacker ducked in, hoping to catch the Dwarf unawares. He came to an abrupt halt as a mighty hand clamped over his head and squeezed. The mercenary barely had time to comprehend what was happening before he died. Groge stormed into the light as he tossed the corpse off into the trees. The Giant was bewildered at the amount of enemies swarming into the tiny campsite. Any hope of Boen drawing them off the night they spent in the farmer’s barn shattered. Groge guessed there must be more than a hundred enemy soldiers trying to kill his friends.
Unfelt rage suddenly welled to life. Groge grew angry, more so than he’d ever thought possible. He attacked with boot and fist. The war bar strapped to his back alongside the Blud Hamr smoothly pulled free and reaped a terrible cost among the enemy, but still they kept coming. Their tenacity was only matched by ignorance. Groge killed for the first time without compunction or hesitation.
Nothol, Dorl, and Rekka stood back to back as they desperately tried to fend off increasing, repeated assaults from the dozen attackers surrounding them. A handful of bodies, some wounded, others dead, already lay heaped around the trio. Arrows studded the trees and ground. More than one struck the packs on the ground. Cries of agony filled the night sky. Steel crashed against steel. The sickly sound of flesh being torn asunder hovered over the camp like Lord Death’s very cape.
“Get down!”
Bahr perked up, pulling his gore-stained blade free from the mercenary he’d just impaled. The voice was oddly familiar. Enough to prompt him to obey. “Everyone down!”
A fresh hail of arrows, smaller and dark, flitted through the air where he’d just been standing. A moment later and the crossbow bolts would have riddled his body. Instead they slammed into the mercenaries, puncturing armor, helms, and flesh without prejudice. The unexpected assault was enough to drive the surviving mercenaries off. Poorly armored soldiers rushed in to fill the void but less than a handful remained in the camp. The others hurried off into the night to run down the enemy.
Even Gods Must Fall Page 11
