A Tide of Shadows

by Tom Bielawski

  This deity appeared to be somewhat human, and somewhat monstrous at the same time - if such a thing were possible. And, although the newcomer’s visible skin was pale as alabaster, he was as black as they came. He wore simple trousers of brown and black, which matched his simple shirt. The hood of his brown cloak was drawn low, shrouding the face of the newcomer in shadow but not completely hiding the hint of a skeletal visage peering at him from its depths. A long black mace, topped with a wicked skull, hung from his belt. And Shalthazar thought he saw the eyes of that skull watching him while its jaw worked slowly, silently; perhaps anticipating a meal. Shalthazar bowed low in respect, and then he stood upright, meeting the newcomer’s gaze.

  “Your Dark Majesty,” said Shalthazar.

  Indeed, this dark elf wizard of the Far Worlds understood his predicament perfectly now. Here was the hand that diverted him from his course. Here was one of the gods of Llars!

  “I have a deal for you,” the god stated simply, not waiting for the mortal to ramble on with useless praise.

  His voice was smooth and cold, commanding in tone, and powerfully intelligent. This was a god who was not ostentatious and cared little for appearance or flair. From what he had learned of the very few gods of this world, he rightly suspected this was Umber.

  “I am eager to hear it, O Dark One.” Shalthazar was intrigued. “I have long been fascinated by your people,” he thought it best not to waste his time with compliments that the dark being clearly did not care for.

  Umber was a deity who existed for power, exploited the vices of others, and took great pleasure in being a vehicle of deception. He was not driven by a desire for opulence and wealth, caring only for the consolidation of his power and the joy of executing well-crafted exploitations.

  “You were correct in your calculations, mortal,” the god said bluntly.

  Umber had an angry demeanor, which, the wizard assumed, meant he was always angry.

  “I manipulated the Fabric, to alter the appearance of your Destination Portal. You stand in the Temple of Umber, deep within Voscown, the capital city of the Frost Elves, the most devoted and capable of my children.”

  Shalthazar looked respectfully at the god but said nothing. He felt the tingle of godly magic in the air about him and knew the god was studying him. Clearly, the god knew much more about him than he had anticipated and, apparently, had known Shalthazar had been studying Llars from afar; much to the dark wizard’s chagrin.

  “I brought you here because of your shrewdness and your powerful command of magic.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “Do not mistake my compliments for kindness; you are but a mortal and as bothersome as a fly!” rebuked the dark figure.

  Shalthazar swallowed the insult and bowed low, saying no more as he looked at the figure silently; he was in the presence of a god after all.

  “Your choice of Canaria makes me doubt your wisdom. The powers of those coven mongrels are little better than that of the pitiful rock-worshipping wretches of Far Reach compared to what I have to offer you,” the god went on angrily.

  The dark god took a deep breath and continued. Breathing? Having dealt with gods in the past, Shalthazar was inwardly amused by the lengths to which these petty gods sometimes went in order to appear mortal. The skull atop the god’s mace worked its jaws silently, angrily.

  “I am worshiped by many here as Umber, the Dark Lord, the Harbinger of Doom, the Lord of Disasters, the Dealer of Diseases, and the Lord of Death.” He sounded as though he were bored at the lack of imagination of these titles. “However, there are some who know me as Ilian Nah, the Lord of Justice and the Keeper of Might,” the dark face sneered at the mention of these monikers, yet he continued.

  “It has suited me well to allow this facade to continue over the centuries, for I knew that one day it would provide me with an opportunity to exploit entire populations of mortals.“

  “Forgive me Your Dark Majesty-” Shalthazar began.

  The dark one, ever so slowly, turned his powerful and malevolent gaze back to the wizard. “Do not interrupt me, drau!”

  Shalthazar bowed low and said no more.

  “That book contains an ancient and powerful form of magic lost to this world five centuries ago. Over the past centuries the only magic available here has been arcane sorcery; very similar to the type of magic with which you are familiar, but far more limited. You have already noticed this lack of power, I am sure. And as you have probably deduced it is due to the Fabric, the magical shield protecting Llars from unwanted discovery. Although I do not especially like my siblings, or my father, we are in agreement that our world remain hidden from prying eyes, like yours.”

  Shalthazar bowed humbly at the compliment veiled as a rebuke.

  “Arcane magic, in any world, is an inferior form of magic and hardly worth the study.”

  Shalthazar thought to take exception to this but wisely held his tongue.

  “Its weakness is its dependence on material components which are oft ridiculously rare or difficult to prepare. There are no such limitations to our superior form of magic, harnessed by the power of the Sigils; a unique power that belongs to the essence of the planet itself. It flows and ebbs in strength like the tides of our oceans, it waxes and wanes with the phases of the moon, and it can be manipulated. But, it can control or consume those too weak to master it. If you know how to look, you can see the Tides of the Sigil Magic all around you. The Sigils are descended from the very language of creation itself, and as such it commands god-like powers, though only just so. If you learn, you can see waves of the Sigil Tides ebbing and flowing around you in response to disturbances elsewhere. You can see tornadoes of the Sigil Tides on land, whirlpools of it in the oceans and veritable hurricanes of it in the Southern Reaches. And the Tides will tell you things if you know how to listen. My father, Zuhr, had taken the use of this power away from Llars in response to an abuse, by one of his followers.”

  The dark wizard did not miss the god’s tone or his sentiment. Surely this mortal Sigilist must have been supremely powerful if the chief god of Llars banned its use over his misdeeds.

  “There are several languages of Sigils, each commanding its own mystery. The most powerful of these is the Sigil of Shadows. Though the secret of the language of the Shadow Sigils has been lost these many centuries, I have discovered a way to release the power of the Shadow Sigils beneath my father’s very nose!”

  The god was silent for a moment. Although Shalthazar could not truly see the god’s face, he knew from the god’s emphasis that there must be an expression of hate and loathing hiding within that dark hood. The elf instinctively wondered if this god’s familial dynamics presented a weakness to be exploited. But he was distracted from these thoughts as the deity’s face suddenly flickered in and out of the shadows of his hood, alternating between a fleshy man-like face and a shadowy, skeletal, visage.

  “There is a secretive society among the Crimson Elves, the sworn enemies of my Frost Elf children, who have guarded the secrets of the Sigil of Flames, awaiting its return. They may yet prove troublesome should my father see fit to release the power of the other Sigils back into the world.”

  Umber paused a moment, scrutinizing the wizard. ”When you study this Tome, you will understand why and how this has happened. For now, know that its tremendous power will be yours to command. I cannot teach it to you overnight; in fact, it will take you some time to master its taxing ways. Rest assured that once you master the Sigils, you will find this far more powerful than the ways of the inferior arcane magic you are accustomed to.”

  This talk of power was more than Shalthazar could stand; he was almost drunk with the prospect already.

  “I will assist you with your studies as I see fit. When you are ready, you will begin the conquest of the miserable filth that inhabit the Western Havens. You will become a powerful and mighty ruler while expanding my influence over the lands. You will lead an army under my banner! People will flo
ck to my standard! The Sul of Nah will grant you his troops, so long as you don’t allow him to know your true heart. Those you conquer will convert and worship me as Ilian Nah; pay them well and they will fight in your army. Command respect and dispense justice severely but swiftly; the people will respect this.

  “Once you have established your new kingdom in the Western Haven, you will forge an alliance with King Ognadrog the Merciless, of Hurkromin, and commence the next phase of my plans.”

  The dark god turned back to the wizard and stared at him. The force of the gaze was more than even Shalthazar could stand and the dark wizard fell to his knees.

  “My perennial enemy, Ulrych, must be removed from the pantheon. He, and his pathetic followers, must be destroyed! I have already begun this process with a very clever deception that will cripple his precious knighthood. In fact, the goodly knights of Zuharim now serve me!”

  Shalthazar knew Ulrych was Umber’s own brother, and another petty god of this world. And from his studies he knew that the powerful order known as Zuharim venerated Ulrych and Zuhr above all others. Umber must have a very powerful trick up his sleeve, indeed. The wizard delighted in the prospects of using his enemies own servants against them! This would prove to be a fruitful relationship. Yet, he wondered in the deepest recesses of his mind, if this plan to replace Ulrych would interfere with the dark wizard’s own grand scheme for supreme power.

  “You will add sheep to my flock, you will bring coins to my coffers, you will strengthen me for a fight fast approaching. You will bring destruction to my enemies, and your soul will serve me forever.”

  Ah yes, he thought. The catch. Shalthazar was a powerful elf who had been alive several centuries, and he knew that there was always a way to escape a god’s hold on a mortal’s soul.

  “You may consider it a catch if it pleases you,” said the god as he read the surface of the wizard’s mind. However, the mental slip was by design; the wizard was skilled at hiding his true thoughts from mind readers. “But you have little choice. Accept, and greatness awaits you. Refuse, and your life is forfeit. What is your answer?”

  Shalthazar buried his thoughts deeply within his mind, knowing that the god could not read them there. He knew that in a matter of seconds his Ring of Returning would free him of the influence of this deity; although he did not quite know what affects the intense magical presence of this god, and the magical Fabric, would have on the magic that resided within that ring. There was a chance that god-magic could drastically alter the way his magical ring worked. And, for now, the prospect of power and wealth seemed very attractive.

  “It appears that my decision has been made, Your Majesty. I swear my allegiance to you,” the wizard prostrated himself before the god.

  Umber nodded and another figure materialized next to him. It was an Elvish woman with blue and white skin and blue-black hair. Her features were sharp and her eyes were deep and dark. She was intensely beautiful and wore an alluring robe of silver and blue silk with a crystalline dagger at her hip. In her hand was a plain black staff, topped by a large sapphire, and across her back were strapped two curved swords.

  “You will stay here in Voscown and study our ways. This is Essenen, Commander of the Order of the Shadow Disciples,” the god said proudly. “My Disciples possess many skills and they are excellent spies and assassins. They are gifted with stealth and deception and they are skilled in many forms of combat. Once you have mastered the ways of the Black Sigil, the Shadow Disciples will be yours to command.

  “You may wonder why, then, I have not chosen one of my Disciples to carry the honor of this task?” he asked.

  Shalthazar nodded in reply and the god cast a baleful glance at the Frost Elf woman next to him. In contrast, the beautiful woman stood silently, demurely casting her gaze at her feet. Shalthazar felt the power in her though, and he held no illusions about her character.

  “One of their numbers has sinned against me and attempted to use my power without my knowledge or permission.”

  Dark shadows began to swirl around the god like a black mist, echoing his displeasure.

  “All of them were punished for their leader’s sin,” Essenen trembled at that, apparently remembering some dreadful incident. “Essenen has proven to be the most capable and has taken her captain’s place as Commander of the Shadow Disciples.”

  Shalthazar suddenly caught himself beginning to think about Essenen in ways that might prove dangerous. Long ago he had learned never to engage himself with women whom he could not intimidate or force into servitude. Willful and powerful women were always far too difficult to master and proved vengeful when slighted. Although he had no problems using powerful women to further his goals, he had no desire to engage himself with any of them.

  “Wise decision, drau!” the god laughed, apparently reading Shalthazar’s thoughts. It was a grating, skin crawling, laugh that set Shalthazar’s teeth on edge.

  “Now, come. Essenen will be your guide and show you to your palace.”

  The wizard was absolutely giddy with his prospects.

  C H A P T E R

  1

  A Day at Work.

  The Temple of Qra’z.

  Carym awakened long before sun up, as he usually did, and threw his feet on the cold ground; it was the beginning of his morning ritual. He sat on the edge of his bed, with his feet on the floor for a few moments, shook his head and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He walked over to the table in the center of his one-room cottage, and poured some water from a pitcher into a bowl. He sat, staring into the water for several long moments, remembering the absence of the ones he loved, and lost. Sadness began to seep into his soul again, and he forced himself to think about something else.

  He took a long drink of water and ate a piece of bread and some dried deer jerky. After he ate, he washed his face with cold water and felt a little refreshed. He got dressed in his usual work clothes: olive colored trousers, gray shirt, and leather apron. He slung his leather overcoat on top of his shoulder and pulled on his sturdy military issued boots. Finally, as he always did, the man meticulously checked his appearance before he left for work.

  Old habits die hard, he thought.

  Carym had spent some time in the service of the Arnathian Navy as an Arms-Master, a keeper of weapons and ordnance. He owed his skills as a fighter and swordsman to his naval service. For five years Carym served the Arnathian Empire, as was required of all young men of fighting age in the Territories. When he completed his obligation to the Arnathian Empire, he returned home and with his savings he bought a cottage in the small village of Hyrum where he had grown up. Hyrum was located in the Arnathian Northern Territories in a place called Hybrand, populated by those who were descended from the southern Cklath tribes of long ago. To this day the people of Hybrand, still under the oppressive thumb of Imperial Arnathia, hold true to their Cklathish traditions and call themselves Cklathmen.

  Carym married his childhood sweetheart as he promised her he would when he left for his tour of duty. After returning home he and his friend Zach began adventuring for money; hiring themselves out to local lords, bringing fugitives to justice for a price. The Sheriff of Hybrand would give the men tasks to complete from time to time, such as serving Imperial decrees and acting as couriers of the Imperial Court. The Sheriffs’ powers had been greatly reduced under Arnathian rule, having been relegated to collecting taxes and serving warrants.

  Carym preferred order and discipline in life and he detested chaos. Yet he lost his struggles against chaos and disorder on the day his little daughter, Elana, was born. Carym had learned over time to adapt to life with a baby, and he became very happy. He was a proud father and worked hard to provide for his family.

  Five short years ago, a terrible day had been burned into Carym’s memory forever. Carym had been on a trip to the border regions to pick up some much-needed goods for his family and home. When he returned he found that his village had been raided by Vaardic warriors from across the Brythyn Sea.
The Vaard were a seafaring warrior nation of ruthless barbarians. They were a hard people, and cruel to a fault, making most of their living from raiding villages located along the coasts of the Brythyn Sea.

  Although the Vaard were rarely seen this far south, their handiwork was apparent, Carym recalled with a twinge as he remembered returning that fateful day. Houses still smoldered, as his fellow Cklathmen ran from ruin to ruin looking for loved ones. The smell of death permeated the air, and the sounds of families sobbing over loved ones had wrenched his soul; it was a day he would not forget. It was the day his beloved wife and their baby girl were murdered in their cottage. Imperial Arnathia considered the Vaardic raid a mere nuisance not worthy of retaliation. His young family was dead and his home had been destroyed. Carym, too, was destroyed. He had given much in his service to Arnathia, and yet Arnathia did not feel Hybrand was worth the resources that would be spent retaliating against the Vaard.

  After the gruesome business of cleaning up and burying the dead was done, Carym sank deeply into despair, medicating his soul with the finest spirits the Silver Star Inn had to offer. Eventually despair gave way to anger and Carym began to harbor thoughts of vengeance. The other townsfolk, too, were angry and ready to strike back at the Vaard. A man called Argus the Strong, who had earned the respect of his fellow Cklathman by standing up for his people with the Arnathians, had convinced enough of the men to form a militia, a practice frowned upon by the Arnathian government, though not entirely illegal. Their sole purpose was to exact revenge against the bloodthirsty Vaardic warriors of the North.

  Argus had been cautioned not to form a militia, but he ignored the warnings. He reasoned that citizens of the Arnathian Empire who served in its armed forces were always subject to recall and, therefore, were always members of the military. In the clever minds of the Cklathmen this was no militia, just Arnathian military veterans activating themselves for duty. Argus had been a captain in the Imperial Army and was the highest-ranking veteran in Hyrum. All the veterans in the town who had not been killed, and a handful of others from outlying areas, joined together in a series of retaliatory raids on the Haag Kingdom of the Vaard, ruled by Vaardking Erlaf Mersen. The Arnathian Military was the finest fighting force in the world and these veterans had been well trained.