Gifts of Vorallon: 02 - City of Thunder

by Thomas Cardin

  City of

  Thunder

  Gifts of Vorallon II

  Thomas Cardin

  cover Art and Map by Thomas Cardin

  Copyright © 2013 Thomas Cardin

  All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author.

  ISBN: 1482518503

  ISBN-13: 978-1482518504

  DEDICATION

  In memory of our son Ralph, whose voice still rings clear

  Chapter 1

  A BLESSING TO THE FALLEN

  Twenty-Seventh day of the Moon of the Thief

  –inside Vlaske K’Brak

  The tromping of hard-soled boots in the passage beyond the traveler’s hall drew Lorace to awareness. No nightmares or visions had disturbed his sleep. His hand remained clenched on the smooth links of his chain. Sakke Vrang clinked musically as he took a deep breath and stretched.

  Before he rose, he sent his sight out beyond the blue-tinted stone of Kur K’Tahn and the morning shadowed Keth, to look upon the City of Thunder. Sharp-eyed guardsmen and priests walked the tiered battlements, while among them passed baskets of small meat pies, still steaming with heat. Beyond the walls of Halversome, most of the Zuxran camp slept. Only sentries and cooks were roused and active.

  Their siege tower neared completion, a few timbers were still waiting to join its upper works. More stacks of rough planed wood and heavy rope suggested the plan for another.

  What are you waiting for? Lorace thought, shaking his head. Within the commander’s tent, the bearded man slept soundly, while his lanky companion knelt, back bent low, upon a small ornate rug. The man stood the moment Lorace’s awareness entered, and crossed the tent to splash water in his face from a basin.

  Lorace released his sight and rose from bed, running the chain through his hands once again. The chain betrayed no more of it secrets, but it was no longer hiding from him, as it had when the godstone had been in its sphere form. He did not share in the concern of the dwarves, that the resulting chain was the first Ritual of the Forge not to yield a familiar weapon. Yarkin would pass word that it was indeed a weapon. ‘The greatest the world had ever seen,’ he had said. None of that answered how it should be wielded.

  Something within Sakke Vrang had linked to him, bonding with his spirit. Was it the destiny, they said would be his? Holding the chain, the sensation of that touch flowed back to him, like touching his own leg—felt through both fingertips and limb.

  He laid the chain on the bed, releasing his hold on it for the first time since its forging. The connection remained, returning the softness of the bed, and the texture of the woolen blankets. The chain was part of him now, this is what it communicated. Or was it telling him he was part of it?

  He crossed to his own stone basin of warm, scented water to bathe before drawing on the same robes he had worn to the Ritual.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and shut his eyes. Focusing his inner voice, he called out, Jorune?

  A memory flooded his awareness. He was seven summers old, a child following a grass snake as it crossed the high-walled training yard of his home. He marveled at how the sun reflected off its red and green scales. Jorune came up behind him, though Lorace had already felt his presence.

  Jorune spoke, “It is beautiful. Are you scared of it?”

  “No, Eldravina said it was not poisonous,” the child Lorace answered, naming the knight of the order who taught them riding and animal lore. “It is just a mouse hunter.”

  “Touch it then,” Jorune taunted with a light, playful push.

  Lorace reached out and stroked a finger along the back of the sun-warmed serpent. Its scales grew and rippled to dull silver until Sakke Vrang coiled upon the ground its place.

  “Respect it, it has a job to do as well,” Jorune said as he touched him again, this time to lay a warm hand on his back.

  Lorace stood up straight, a grown man once more, chain in hand. The flood of memory no longer constrained his actions—his hands had taken up the free reigns of that out-of-control horse. With conscious control of the memory, he spoke, “There is concern among my friends about Sakke Vrang. They wonder what form of weapon it is. How am I to save Halversome with a chain?”

  Jorune clasped both of Lorace’s shoulders and turned him around to face him. No longer a child; Jorune was a full-grown man, tall and straight, so much like their father that a knot formed in Lorace’s chest. A silver lock of hair still adorned his brow while the other ringlets of his hair shaded to dark brown.

  A smile danced across Jorune’s adult face and he shook his head at Lorace. “You have far more to do than save Halversome. Your friends will be satisfied. The chain is far more than a mere weapon, though it will suffice in that role. It will change the world.” His voice was deeper, but carried the same notes of youthful humor that had always defined his brother’s speech.

  “Can you tell me what I must do?” Lorace asked while he familiarized himself with the adult version of his elder brother.

  Jorune barked out a laugh. “Of course not!”

  Lorace frowned, taken aback.

  Jorune sobered at his injured expression, and brushed back his silver-lock with a familiar flick of his hand. “I do not mean to make light of your destiny, Lorace, but I cannot share what you ask. Your destiny must remain hidden. There are choices you must make, many choices, each one of which could change everything.”

  Lorace nodded, accepting this as he accepted this new vision of his brother. It was so easy to fall into the role of younger brother, listening avidly to the infinite wisdom of his older brother. “Is there anything you can tell me about the chain?”

  “Yes,” Jorune said, beaming with happiness once more. “Think on what a normal chain can be used for, as well as what it symbolizes, and know that the chain you bear is the greatest chain ever created. It is beautiful in form and function—symbolic of so many things—the Lady be praised indeed. The Ritual has forged the perfect weapon for the destiny before you.”

  Jorune turned to pace in the sun-bathed yard. “Godstone is incredible, absolutely incredible, but your chain is more than just godstone, you know that. It was a shield for your spirit from the foulness of Tezzirax, and because of that role, it has long been linked to your essence.”

  He stopped and stared hard at him. “It was partially forged already when the Lady shaped it into the sphere, but the Ritual of the Forge altered its shape again, and opened it up to the destiny that has been set before you.”

  “It began its task by burning the corruption from my flesh,” Lorace mused. “It strengthened my will and my spirit—changing who I thought I was.”

  The barest glimmer of sadness crossed over Jorune’s eyes as Lorace spoke of the change over him. Just as quickly, wry eagerness replaced the sadness, and the corners of Jorune’s lips curled up.

  “There is another mystery of your chain to be discovered. Do you wish to hear a clue about it?”

  “That is why I am here, brother,” Lorace laughed.

  Jorune smiled wide as Lorace’s laughter rang from the walls of the yard. “In addition to your body; your will and your spirit are linked to the chain. The symbols on your hands represent that link. This is the nature of Vorallon’s gift to you.”

  “Vorallon’s gift?” Lorace arched an eyebrow. “Not the Lady?”

  “Did I say that?” Jorune said with a wink. “Consider that another clue, if you will.”

  Lorace straightened with a sudden realization. “You are still alive somewhere. This is not a memory at all.”

  “Of c
ourse I am alive. We are communicating with one another now,” Jorune said, taking Lorace’s sudden change of inquiry in stride.

  “And Bartalus, he is alive as well?” Lorace pressed.

  “Yes, you can call to him as readily as you can to me—we are blessed with this link.”

  A wave of warmth washed over Lorace. His brothers were alive!

  “I am glad,” Lorace said while his heart beat with joy. “Give my thanks to Lord Aran for sharing you with me.”

  “Call on me any time, I shall be watching.”

  He turned away from his brother, breaking the communion, and opened his eyes upon his room. He stuffed the chain into his satchel and placed its strap across his shoulder before exiting the chamber.

  Lorace found Tornin and Oen already within the common room, engaged in a fine meal of honey cakes and a sweet smelling, soft cheese. Oen rose in greeting and beckoned him to the table.

  “Sit, Lorace, I have managed to save you some food before it could all disappear down Tornin’s vacuous maw,” Oen grinned at the young guardsman, eating with his singular passion. “Yarkin will be along shortly to escort us to the burial ceremony. The entire hold is bustling with activity.”

  Lorace sent his sight on a brief foray through a fraction of Vlaske K’Brak, observing the source of the sounds that had awakened him. “It is a new day, and they hasten to prepare their warriors for the journey to Halversome.”

  He managed to eat a few bites of the sticky, sweet fare before Yarkin entered. The priest now wore a heavy white robe of many pleats and folds. It gave him the appearance of a white boulder, rippled and weathered with striations.

  They stood and bowed to the aged priest, who dismissed their obeisance with a wave of a gnarled hand. “It is I and all my kin who should be bowing before you. I come begging your blessing for our fallen heroes.”

  “It will be my honor,” Lorace said, resisting the urge to bow again.

  “Come then, it is time for the ceremony to celebrate their deeds,” said Yarkin, turning to the bustling halls of the dwarven hold.

  Most of the traffic in the hall was flowing along with them. The few exceptions were the heavily armored warriors of Prince Wralka’s cohort.

  “Like the Ritual of the Forge,” Yarkin said, leading them down a long sloping passage, “most of the community of Vlaske K’Brak will be attending to the fallen, for none are unaffected by their loss and the victory they gave us.”

  Oen spoke up, “Following the ceremony, we need to be on our way to Halversome as soon as we can.”

  “Yes, a special escort has been arranged that will take you, Guardian, as well as Lorace and the giant, Tornin, back to the City of Thunder,” Yarkin replied, ignoring Tornin’s grin. “Prince Wralka and his warriors will also depart immediately following the ceremony.”

  “We will not be traveling together?” Lorace asked, his eyebrows arching up.

  “No, you will arrive back in Halversome well in advance of Prince Wralka,” Yarkin answered. “Vorallon will accept no further delay in your destiny.”

  Lorace mused, “Do I serve Vorallon, the Lady, or Lord Aran?”

  “It is the destiny of all godstone champions to protect Vorallon, as Elena, Kvarrak, Dranna, and, I trust, Sir Rindal have,” Yarkin said then thrust a knobby finger at him. “You serve the others you name as well, but the warding of Vorallon is foremost in the hearts of the Lords of Balance and the Old Gods both.”

  Lorace smiled upon his companions, Tornin who had stood before him and met a demon’s charge in his defense; Oen who had saved them all by facing the agonizing flames of another. As they serve me, he thought with certainty. I serve them all.

  The traffic of dwarves in the passage noted his smile and returned it boldly with their greetings, drawing Lorace’s attention back to their descent into the mountain. Dwarves pressed all around, but none of them got in one another’s way, nor did they slow Yarkin’s stride, so ordered were they in their movement. Many of the dwarves carried thick iron rods, the length of their arm.

  After descending past workshops, storerooms, and smelters, now quiet and empty, they arrived at a large, cavernous chamber before the crypt of Vlaske K’Brak. At the far end of the chamber was an ornate gate of iron opening onto the darkened passage of the crypt itself.

  A long line of flat marble blocks extended outward from the gate. One of the fallen lay upon each, shrouded in white robes. Hundreds of attendant dwarves stood silent and still, shoulder to shoulder, and many ranks deep on both sides.

  Prince Wralka, again wearing his finely wrought armor, stepped forward and bowed before Lorace, stopping him and his companions before the last body.

  “Lorace, wielder of Sakke Vrang,” Prince Wralka said in a clear voice that filled the chamber. “Would you honor our heroes by blessing them with the touch of your chain, before their bodies are returned to the stone?”

  “I would be honored,” Lorace said as he pulled the mass of chain from his blue leather satchel.

  All the gathering of dwarves focused on Lorace while Yarkin continued along the line of the dead to stop before the crypt and begin a litany naming each fallen dwarf.

  Lorace stepped forward to stand over the last body in line. The small spike of her vranka lay upon her chest. Careful not to disturb its position, he gently touched several links of Sakke Vrang to her body. To his surprise, she trembled slightly and tiny sparks of golden light gleamed along the chain to flow into his hand.

  The dull silvery chain pulled the hints of corruption out of the stout dwarven body, out of the very wounds inflicted by the demons. A slight tingle of energy, like the feel of a warming fire, flowed with the sparks.

  Oen gasped at what his gift of spirit vision revealed. “Her wounds are purified!”

  The closest of the dwarves called out “Sakke Vrang!” at the sight of the trembling and sparking, a cry that was picked up and repeated by the dwarves further back, like an echo, reverberating up and out of the cavern.

  Lorace proceeded to the next body and again the corpse trembled and the chain arced with tiny golden sparks of light that flowed into his being.

  “Sakke Vrang!” the dwarves shouted in thunderous unison.

  Each body quivered to a greater or lesser degree, depending on the extent of their wounds. When Lorace blessed the last, where Yarkin stood, he noted that the litany was long over, and after the final shout of “Sakke Vrang” all eyes were upon him.

  Energy from the chain coursed through every fiber of his being. A strengthening and solidifying sensation like a deep breath of air that went deeper than his lungs to expand his whole body. The dwarves stood silent now, yet they exuded a rapturous energy of their own.

  He extended the chain between both hands and lifted it up above his head, displaying its links to all as their many throats shouted out. “Lorace K’Sak! Sakke Vrang! Lorace the Chain! Chain of Vengeance!”

  Yarkin and Prince Wralka pulled open the gates while the dwarves bearing iron rods stepped up to each white stone block and seated them into holes in their sides.

  Six dwarves to each stone, each grasping a bar, they lifted and bore their fallen in a procession through the portal in Yarkin’s wake, into the depths of the dwarven hall of the dead.

  Never missing their step, each dwarf to pass Lorace nodded their respect. Lorace met the gaze of each in turn, his own eyes reflecting their strength and certainty with his own.

  Through the thin soles of his sandals upon the smooth stone of the floor, rose a pulsing vibration. It was the marching tread of the dwarven bearers, but beneath it was another vibration, even more subtle: the voice of Vorallon. He called no words or image, only feelings—gratitude—deep and earnest gratitude that flowed into the depths of Lorace’s tranquility.

  Once the final white block bearing its burden had passed within the portal to the crypt, Prince Wralka led Lorace back out of the hall while Oen and Tornin followed. The thinner ranks of assembled dwarves remained standing in silence, their attention fo
cused on the departing line of stone litters bearing their brothers and sisters—their heroes.

  “You have honored my people with your blessing,” Prince Wralka said, breaking the silence. “This will live on in our memories and within the very stone of Vlaske K’Brak until time ends.”

  Chapter 2

  THE LOST

  Twenty-Seventh day of the Moon of the Thief

  –Outside Blackdrake Castle

  Scythe pulled herself into the saddle of the mouse dun palfrey. Though a half dozen soldiers of the legion jostled with one another to assist, she allowed none to touch her. The gray horse nickered and pranced to show his pleasure. She had not ridden a horse before, but her gift assured that the creature would do its best to keep her seated.

  The horse’s emotions were simple and easy to supplant with desires of her own choosing, as were all the men surrounding her upon the great flat of the parade ground stretching before the entrance to Blackdrake Castle. Scythe hung her head low, deep within the concealing shroud of her hood, shamed that she coerced even this simple creature to ease her fear.

  In her madness, the Queen was right; Scythe relished the opportunity to study this giant. She had not forced the Queen to let her remain within the castle. She would have, but for the opportunity it afforded her to feed her fascination of magic by examining this giant up close. In truth, the thought of all these soldiers being destroyed as the people of Jalton to the north had been, also contributed to her willingness to follow Ivrane’s bidding. As concerned as she was for her own safety, she was in complete agreement with the Queen’s assessment of the power of her gift. Once this giant man was in sight of her, he would be as pleased to serve her as her mount.

  Captain Andrigar, in a full armor of black chain and plate, called his two hundred mounted men to order from the back of his enormous white warhorse. She had known since first seeing Andrigar that he was somehow immune to her gift. Whenever she had tried to project emotion into him they had rebounded back to her, like a reflection off of water. Alone among Zuxrans, Andrigar appeared a decent man, as unaffected by the cruelties of their society as he was by her. Over time he had proven himself self-absorbed and severe, but not malicious, that earned a small fraction her respect and halted her designs to have him removed through other means.