“How is that possible?” Lorace asked then realized what the boy was implying. “Micah when you pray and see you your mother you are actually seeing her in Jaarda? Is that your gift?”
Micah shook his head.
“You have been to Jaarda?” Lorace pressed.
“Yes,” Micah shuffled his feet. “It is a secret though, mother told me not to tell anyone about my gift.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” Lorace assured the boy. “I will not tell anyone without your permission.”
Tezzirax had marked his flesh with something he remembered from Nefryt—markings graven in fire upon a black mountain. Through his hatred, he had transcribed an image from his former life as a demon, writing it indelibly on the flesh of the young boy in whom he was trapped.
Remembering his duty with a gasp, Micah sprang forward to hand Lorace a thick woolen towel from the top of his bundle. “Here, and these are for you; Grammie had them in her stores.”
The child offered up his bundle of folded clothes.
“Thank you!” Lorace exclaimed as he dried himself then rubbed most of the water out of his tangled hair. He pulled a yellow, long sleeved shirt over his head first, its heavy weave of wool scratchy, but comforting on his skin. Next, he drew on a pair of gray canvas trousers that tightened at the hip with buttons made from carved disks of deer antler. Brown leather patches reinforced the knees. Finally, he slid his feet into a pair of tall doeskin boots tightened by a long column of more deer antler buttons and leather loops running from the ankle to just below his knee.
“How do I look?” he asked Micah once he had secured the last of the buttons.
“Well, you do not look like a priest anymore,” Micah confided.
“I am not a priest,” Lorace explained. “I was just wearing what they had at the Temple of Aran. Your uncle gave me the robes to wear. My old clothes were ruined.”
Micah nodded in understanding. “You are a knight.”
“No, neither am I a knight,” Lorace laughed warmly. “I am just a man chosen to fight for Halversome and Vorallon.”
Lorace noted the lowering sunlight coming through the narrow windows of the hall and placed his satchel strap over his shoulder once more. “I think it is time for me to go, Micah. Let us go back to the shop and get my lady’s dress—she has only had robes to wear as well.”
Narlana waited for him within her shop, of Falraan and the other women there was no sign. Once he had passed her inspection of both his cleanliness and the fit of his new clothes, Narlana handed him Iris’s dress, wrapped snug in white linen cloth.
Bowing low, Lorace said, “I cannot thank you and your family enough, Narlana.”
“Just keep us safe,” the elder matron said. “Falraan has taken the time to explain some things about you, young man. I do not know what to make of most of it, just that you should be very careful with yourself.”
“I shall,” he said simply, though he wished to say so much more. I shall do my utmost to save all of you. You are all precious to me.
Narlana reached out to clutch his hand. “See that they make it back, Lorace.”
He cupped her hand and bowed as Falraan opened the door to the street and stuck her head in the room. “Oh good! You are ready,” she said, beckoning to him. “The elves are here Lorace. It is beautiful!”
Chapter 15
A LOFTY AFFAIR
Twenty-Eighth day of the Moon of the Thief
-in Halversome
Lorace exited onto the porch to stand beside Falraan, her aunts, and cousins. Elves marched into the city through the Keth Gate to the cheers and waving of the handful of red-headed women beside him and many other citizens along the wide street. Over one hundred strong, they walked two abreast wearing intricately woven chainmail that caught the bronzed light of the setting sun on fine steel links. Over their shoulders and hanging down their backs they wore cloaks of red trimmed in gold. Each bore a long bow of a white wood extending in a single arc from ankle to an arm’s length above their heads. At their hips were narrow swords of a variety of design and artistry unique to each elf.
A joyous stampede of Halversome’s children, Micah among them, rushed to meet them. All semblance of military order broke apart as each elf lifted a human child lightly into their arms. Adwa-Ki, garbed and armored as all her warriors, had her hands full with two small girls. Dederon, who had led the second column beside Adwa-Ki, lifted one of the giggling girls from his matriarch’s arms to sweep her into a twirling dance.
Captain Falraan stepped forth to bow deeply before the happy disarray of elven warriors. “Welcome, guardians of Keth,” she said formally. “Halversome is grateful for your presence.”
“We have come to honor the Guardian’s Pact,” Adwa-Ki proclaimed as she lifted her merrily shrieking burden high, “but we see there is no longer an army before your gates.”
“They stand beside us now,” Lorace answered. Adwa-Ki’s wide, violet eyes locked on his while she hugged the child to her breast. “All have been remade. No longer Zuxran foemen, they are new pilgrims to Halversome.”
Adwa-Ki set the girl-child down and gently prodded her toward the dance of the other children and elves. “You are not the same man I parted with just a day ago. You are something more than even the godstone heroes of old.”
Lorace beamed with a broad smile. “Indeed much has happened in that day.”
He and Captain Falraan walked beside Adwa-Ki as her warriors resumed their march toward Halversome’s central plaza, many with children still in their arms. He shared a brief account of the demon horde which razed Zed and threatened to do the same to Halversome. Though Adwa-Ki’s eyes widened at the tale, her steps never faltered.
“Much of the change you see in me now is due to Sakke Vrang,” he continued. “The chain consumed the entirety of the demon host and their leader Lord Aizel. In life he was the wizard Losqua, and from what I gathered from consuming his essence, he was the first of the demons.”
Adwa-Ki listened without comment, though her eyes flashed several times with the gold and red of the setting sun.
“Without the warning you gave me within the gates of Vlaske K’Brak this would be a much different reunion. Your words of caution saved me in many ways.”
From the apex of the bridge over this rushing channel of water they could see the plaza already filling with a gathering of priests, guardsmen, and new pilgrims.
“Much more must happen within the next few days,” Lorace concluded. “Halversome is safe for now, but we must take the fight to the true enemy.”
“You speak of the force attacking the spirit of Vorallon itself,” Adwa-Ki broke her silence. “We feel the pain that Vorallon endures.”
They arrived onto the plaza as the sun dipped below the western cliff, casting the city into shades of deep purple while the high apex of the Temple of Aran burst into radiant gold.
“Be welcome, beloved People of Keth,” Oen greeted to the elves. “Momentous events have befallen our fortress city, the safe-hold of the last peoples of the light. We have met and prevailed against two armies within the last rising and setting of the sun. We will discuss the portents of this at length once Prince Wralka and the brothers of Vorallon’s Heart have arrived. For now please enjoy the hospitality of this great home you helped build with your teaching and craftsmanship.”
“Thank you, Guardian Oen and people of Halversome,” Adwa-Ki bowed. “We greet you, our defenders. We greet as well the host of new pilgrims, men formerly of Zuxra, be welcome in peace.”
General Moyan, accompanied by Hethal and his Black Hand warriors, knelt down and bowed his forehead to the paving stones before the elves as his people were named by the silver bell of Adwa-Ki’s voice. The elves returned his gesture with deep bows of their own. While this official welcome transpired Lorace noted Sir Rindal and Tornin enter onto the plaza from the direction of the docks.
“Momentous times indeed,” Adwa-Ki said as she too saw the arriving Sir Rindal. “Wielder of Brakke
Zahn. To our memories, this is the first time two such heroes have walked the living realm during the same span of days.”
Lorace made quick foray with his sight while the elf matron and Sir Rindal greeted one another. “Prince Wralka and his warriors are disembarking now,” he informed Oen.
“Wonderful!” the priest clapped his hands together. “We release your bride back to you. Her teachings have been invaluable to us all, I assure you.”
Iris slid out from among the assembled priests at Oen’s signal to admire Lorace’s new attire for a moment before melting into his ready embrace.
Several of the priests crossed the plaza to the elven hall and lit two large braziers with their new-learned sorcery.
Oen pulled Lorace and Iris aside while the elves assembled before their hall.
“I have taken the honor of preparing a small feast to celebrate the union of the two of you,” Oen said casually. “I want you to take residence tonight in the Guardian’s Hall; it has long stood empty of anyone to share their happiness within. Once Prince Wralka has arrived, we will feast your wedding. I imagine we will soon hear the sound of two hundred heavy-footed dwarves marching up the river street so you have not much time to let your bride change into something suitable.”
The high priest snatched the linen wrapped bundle from Lorace’s hand and offered it to Iris whose eyes brimmed with excitement. He pointed her toward the Guardian’s Hall behind them where long darkened braziers had been lit by another pair of widely smiling priests.
Iris put one hand behind Lorace’s head to pull him down for a quick kiss before turning and bolting to where Falraan stood within Tornin’s arms. Oen laughed at the two suddenly abandoned men when the two women disappeared into the Guardian’s Hall.
“We will set the feast in the Guardian’s Hall as well,” Oen said as the steady cadence of a dwarven marching song came to their ears. “It should be able to accommodate our small celebration.”
Everyone in the plaza turned to watch as the dwarven prince and his warriors marched over the bridge and into view. Prince Wralka halted before Halversome’s guardian, and his warriors planted their plated feet at rest in a single stomp that echoed throughout the city like a crash of thunder.
The dwarven prince stamped the haft of his hammer on the stone before him and frowned at Lorace and Oen severely.
“Where is my battle?” he bellowed out.
“Be welcome, brothers of Vorallon’s Heart,” Oen greeted the dwarven warriors. “A battle you shall have, fear not, but it shall not be before these walls. We must fight for more than this valley and the people herein; we must fight to save Vorallon from becoming a world of death.”
“Aye, this is what I would learn more of,” Adwa-Ki interjected. “Now that Prince Wralka and his warriors have arrived perhaps we can hear more about this threat?”
Lorace stepped forward, pulling free his chain. “Steel yourselves and I shall show you what I know.”
He extended his chain through the air passing it before the elves and the dwarves. “Take hold of the chain and share in my sight.”
Adwa-Ki nodded to her warriors. There were a few mutters of surprise as their light hands took hold of the chain. Prince Wralka and the dwarves nearest him found a clear region of chain to hold as well. Lorace joined his spirit with all of them, much as he had seen Aran and Vorallon joining with the people of Halversome. He guided the infinite golden sparks of his spirit down the chain and spread it to contact the spirits of everyone in the plaza, far beyond those just touching Sakke Vrang. The reach of his spirit surprised him, yet it was in no way spread thin. Lorace opened up his sight to all.
He shared in everyone’s astonishment, experiencing it as though it was his own as he lifted his sight up above the plaza then higher until all of Halversome was in view. “This is our realm. Our home. Halversome and the lands she defends are the last places of purity and light remaining. All other regions of Vorallon have fallen into darkness and death from demons, wars, and famine.”
“Should we ask how you know this?” Adwa-Ki questioned.
“The Lords Aran and Lorn have told me,” Lorace said before casting his sight far to the south over the smoldering ruins of a city. “This is all that remains of Zed where the demons of Nefryt last marched.”
A wash of grief flowed to him, but he calmed the feeling for everyone with his tranquility. “It is more important for me to show you what is happening in Ousenar, and what will soon be happening here if we cannot stop it.”
Lorace moved the view swiftly across the Vestral Sea and over a ruined city in Ousenar, the city the Devourer had passed through. The streets were streaming with people marching south. He drew the shared awareness closer, showing that all were rotting corpses and skeletons. The dead walked and their eyes glowed with the baleful white light of insatiable hunger.
“It is worse than what you can see now,” he soothed their revulsion with his calmness. “This is the work of the God of Undeath invading Vorallon, the dead have dug themselves up from their graves. I have not yet seen the effect this blight of undeath has upon the living, but what is happening to the spirit of Vorallon is the greatest threat.”
Lorace shifted his sight to show the realm of spirit. The blight of undeath now became visible, a roiling blackness with hints of emerald green sparks in its depths chasing away the silver and indigo glow of Vorallon’s spirit. He sunk the point of view deep into the world showing the reaching tendrils of blackness groping down toward the core.
Adwa-Ki dropped the chain but the vision continued. “Enough!” she cried with a revulsion that Lorace could not calm. “I have seen enough. What must we do?”
“We must fight it,” Prince Wralka declared with another slam of his hammer-haft to the paving stones. “With every ounce of will and blood, we must fight it.”
Lorace withdrew his sight and spirit gently as the remaining elves and dwarves released the chain. He unconsciously floated Sakke Vrang neatly back into his satchel.
“For now you must rest and set these portents aside until tomorrow,” Oen said to them all. “Tonight is not for the end of days, it is for beginnings. Tonight we celebrate life and the union of Lorace and Iris, joined this day by the hand of Lord Aran himself.”
“Behold, the Lady Iris!” Falraan shouted from the top of the steps leading into the open Guardian’s Hall.
All eyes in the plaza turned toward the young woman who glided into view upon the raised entry. Iris, garbed in the flowing violet dress, stood with her cascade of ashen blonde hair brushed and flowing across her shoulders. She smiled uncertainly at the staring crowd for a moment before turning her emerald gaze on the thunderstruck Lorace. The low cut dress with its narrow waist and spray of tiny yellow flowers fit, but only barely when she drew a deep breath.
Tornin prodded Lorace in the ribs until he stepped toward his bride. He ascended the steps into the open embrace of her bare arms and lifted her from her feet. His lips met hers and did not part as his world reduced to only what he held in his arms.
He could not say how long he held her thus, she pressing against him with every bit of effort of her slender arms, before the crowd in the plaza began to cheer and applaud. The mounting volume of joyful noise was finally enough to part their lips.
Iris pushed him back a step and spun around, briefly lifting her pleated skirts in a whirl of violet. Her small form, long hidden by heavy robes, now proved strong and finely proportioned. The skin of her bare arms, face and plunging neckline shone like smooth, white porcelain. Lorace, enraptured by her beauty, was indeed glad her dress had been let out at breast and hip for Iris’s body struggled to break free of it in just those places. With her narrow waist, enormous green eyes and a dolls porcelain skin, she simply took his breath away. Never had a woman appeared so lovely, and what made her loveliest of all was the intensity of her own gaze into his eyes.
The love directed at him amplified his own with its warmth and depth. It engulfed him like neither the remember
ed love of his mother nor the love, however strong, of his friends. A new mystery of feeling that he had had but a twinge of when he had announced their love of one another to Oen the previous evening.
“Iris,” Lorace breathlessly whispered. “You have found love.”
“For the first time, Lorace,” her voice was low, deep in her breast. “It is stronger than I could ever have conjured it to be.”
“All these people love you now more than you could ever have coerced them to,” Lorace slipped his fingers into the silky hair behind her perfect ear. “I feel it so much more now than even the boundless spirit within me. This is the love that Aran saw in us.”
Someone coughed behind them, drawing their attention back to the world beyond their embrace. A line of women, men, and children were waiting on the steps below them bearing covered platters and trays from which a variety of sweet and savory aromas rose.
Lorace swept Iris up in his arms, cradled her to his chest, and lifted them both up into the deep indigo sky to an accompanying thunder of cheers. He ascended so high the distant noise of the crowded plaza barely reached them. They kissed again while the night sky shrouded them in privacy.
He surrounded them in warm air from below before the cold chill at their height could be felt. “You look so beautiful.”
“Lorace this is the first dress I have ever worn,” Iris’s crystal laugh lifted free on the wind. “Falraan had to help me put it on. I have never had to deal with laces and buttons in the robes and shifts I have worn.”
“This is a new life for us both,” Lorace said. “And in this new life, you deserve to wear many dresses.”
“I just want to deserve you,” Iris moved her hands to hold his smiling face. “Tonight, after I have shared you for this feast, you are all mine, and for the rest of tonight I will share you with no other.”
He laughed with her. “I shall eat as swiftly as possible then.”
“You shall do nothing of the sort,” she warned. “I want time to be seen and appreciated by everyone. I am hiding no longer.”
Gifts of Vorallon: 02 - City of Thunder Page 17
