* * * * *
Anna watched as the beast-man nearest her exploded in size, howling as it turned to look down the wall of overrun defenders. There a winged man settled upon the wall, and even at this distance she recognized him. It was Lord Seth, the prince of Valdadore. She had met the man once, in the tavern where she had been employed. She had personally served the man and his young wife. Essentially, he had made her who she was. For that reason she did not know whether to praise the man considered a god among mortals, or loathe him.
She watched as he snuffed out the first round of enemies with nothing but a thought. The defenders cheered. Though she was not the enemy, she truly wasn’t an ally either. Anna realized that if she did not flee, her end was near. Unlike these fledglings that fell from the wall to splatter on the ground below, Anna leapt into the darkness, digging her nails into the stone of the wall as she plummeted downward, slowing her descent. She had been feeding unhindered for weeks. Her spawn already numbered near a hundred and they had spawned hundreds more. But most from outlying towns had gone south seeking prey, instead of coming here to Valdadore.
She struck the ground, jarring both her ankles and knees, and waited a few moments until her ligaments repaired themselves before sprinting away from the city, careful to avoid Sigrant’s camp as well. Looking back over her shoulder, she glanced to the top of the wall where she could see the immense king in all of his shining glory. Something about him called to her. He had looked upon her differently than any other man. She would return to discover why, after the prince departed. That is, if Valdadore survived the war.
* * * * *
Garret strode towards his brother, releasing his blessing, not really believing what just happened. In that moment, nothing in the world made sense. His head spun, as if in a dream, and he found it hard to breathe, let alone wrap his mind around what it was that he saw. He had seen his brother’s corpse. Seth had died. Nearly the entire kingdom of Valdadore had witnessed his body impaled on the battlefield. This was an apparition, his brother’s ghost of some sort. Seth had died.
“Garret,” Seth said smiling, his eyes wet with emotion.
“Seth?”
“Of course. Who else?”
“Seth… You’re dead.”
“I was, yes, but now I’m not.”
“You can’t come back…” Garret paused, his tortured mind spinning. “Is Dad with you?”
“No, Garret,” Seth replied with a choking sob, obviously fighting his emotions. “It’s just me.”
“But Dad died too, right? And Jack?”
“Yes, Garret, and I am sorry. It is all my fault, and I can’t fix it.
“But… how?” Garret managed.
“I struck a bargain with Ishanya to return, it seems she has yet more plans for me.”
“But you’re really you?”
“Yes, Garret.”
“And you have wings?”
“Yes.”
“What do we do then?” Garret asked, his mind still unable to understand what was going on in entirety.
“We prepare to hold your city against an enemy, the likes of which the world has never seen.”
“So what should we do?”
“They won’t attack during the day. Get everyone healed and rested, you especially. The sun will be up soon. Me and my men will keep watch through the day.”
“OK.”
Without another word Garret turned, his shoulders sagging and back hunched. Those near him and Seth upon the wall had heard what was to be done, but even so he located an officer and gave his orders. All of the soldiers were to rest during the day and visit the healers if needed.
Garret walked, mindlessly numb, across the wall and down the nearest staircase. Flight after endless flight he climbed down the steps, before reaching the street and heading east towards the castle. The roads were dark, but those who had come to the city for safety inhabited them and watched their broken king as he passed them. They whispered prayers to him as he passed, asking Gorandor to look over him. Some thanked him for the solace he offered them, others simply watched him either in awe or with pity in their eyes. Garret noticed none of them.
More than an hour passed as he made his trek across the city, passing through the gates into the castle complex. He first turned towards the knights’ garrison but then, thinking better of it, changed course to the mages’ tower.
Knocking upon the door that had once been enchanted to open of its own accord but had recently been replaced, Garret grinned oddly as the door swung open to reveal a young woman in a white robe.
“I crushed that once,” Garret said, jerking his head towards the door.
“Yes, your Majesty, I recall the tale,” replied the young woman, concern showing clearly in her face. “Let’s get you inside and see if we can get you patched up.”
* * * * *
King Sigrant felt the loss of each of his newly created troops. But found solace in the fact that his power did not diminish with each one’s death. Even if it had, his power was growing so quickly they were each but a drop in the pond. Slowly he noted the deaths as they came, amused that Valdadore had such issues in killing them. Many minutes later a small torrent of connections left him as if a large fraction of his troops had died all at once, and a moment later another wave of deaths. Within the span of another quarter hour the deaths stopped, all of the troops he had sent to Valdadore having apparently perished.
He stepped once more into the crude ring created by the tents and beckoned to his opponent, one of his most valiant blessed warriors. The man who was captain to his knights charged at breakneck speed, yet to the king it was as if he jogged across the meager sparring field. Stepping back at the last moment, Sigrant thrust out his arm, catching the man under the chin as he passed, the momentum of his movement ripping the captain off his feet to land unceremoniously on his back. Again he rose and tried to strike the king, but to a man as powerful as Sigrant even his fastest warrior seemed slow and weak. Perhaps if he were bitten he would again become useful? Maybe if given more strength and agility he would be a challenge. Then they could spar again and perhaps it would actually feel like sparing. Sigrant, bored beyond measure, decided to test another theory. Walking to the middle of the small clearing he turned and faced his captain, beckoning him with a hand to continue. The knight attacked with what was once considered lightning speed, his thrusts and jabs vicious and relentless.
“Enough,” Sigrant said, looking down to his tattered clothes, the only proof of the thousands of wounds he had received in only a couple minutes time. “I suppose that I need not worry, as no blow has the ability to kill me.”
His knight captain bowed, obviously impressed, and turned to return to his duties. Sigrant stood a moment longer, a moment that to him felt like hours, and pondered how Valdadore had managed to kill his troops so quickly. A man of calculations, it seemed that he may have overestimated the abilities of his troops and would need more than a single night to destroy Valdadore. Thus decided, he altered his plan. The city would need to be taken in a single attack, but required more than a single night. Yet his troops could not withstand the sun. Calculating the days, King Sigrant smiled. His solution was being given to him by the gods. All he needed to do was wait.
* * * * *
Borrik settled to the wall, bowing low to his master. Though Seth had confided in him that he was not a god, now even Borrik doubted the words. Here he was, risen from death, a true leader and most powerful being. Here stood a man that could both create and destroy with a thought, altering the course of creation and making of men, more than could have been fathomed just months ago. Borrik remained bowed for a long moment of silence, showing both his obedience and respect. It was a feral maneuver, but one that he could not overcome. Rising again, he was met by Seth’s smile.
“I am happy to see you as well, Borrik.”
“Master, I feared…” Borrik began.
“Yes, Borrik, I know. All that needs to be said for now is that I wa
s gone, and now I am back. But we should really discuss more important matters.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Borrik responded, half growling the words.
“How was she taken, Borrik?”
“I don’t know, Master. I failed you.”
“Not yet you haven’t. She is alive.”
“Then we should go and rescue her,” Borrik replied quickly, happy for redemption. “With your wings we could go to her and return very quickly.”
“No, Borrik, I am forbidden to leave until this war is finished. Ishanya bids me see this through before I can leave Valdadore. But you…” Seth began.
“Simply command me, and I will see it done,” Borrik said, his muscles flexing.
The look upon the wolf man’s face and body, with his tense muscles, reminded Seth of a guard dog, awaiting the command to attack. It really wasn’t that far from the truth.
“OK, Borrik, go rescue my wife. She has already passed West gate and is being carried away very quickly to the west. I last felt her little more than an hour ago. You know how much this means to me. Do whatever you must.”
“As you wish,” the giant alpha wolf replied. Bending low once more, he sprang into the air with one monstrous lunge. Flapping his taut leather wings rapidly, he began circling up through the air currents until he found a suitable avenue amongst the winds. Seth watched him go, knowing Borrik would not return without Sara. So loyal was his creation that he would rather die than fail his master. Seth wished he could go with him, and knew that Borrik would come in handy in the days to come. He hoped the trip was a swift one. Turning, Seth looked out across the wall seeking Jonas, the next wolf in command. As the sun broke the horizon he spotted the one he sought and, shouting for him to follow, Seth jumped off the wall, into the city. Spreading his wings he glided slowly down to the streets below, where he waited for Jonas to join him. It was time to make some plans, and of course more troops as well.
* * * * *
The first night passed without incident, and for that Zorbin was happy. Scouts had indicated crossing several sets of peculiar tracks including those of giants, dire wolf, and even some the dwarves did not recognize, though they compared them to those belonging to large mountain lions. As it was, nothing came of any of the tracks, and the Dwarven army marched on into the morning, stopping briefly for food before resuming once more.
Zorbin found it peculiar that he felt at home, here amongst his kin, marching off to war. Yet he was homesick as well. He missed the city, the castle, and his friend the king. His life was changing fast, but so too was the world. Kingdoms were colliding, the blessed of the gods growing stronger and stronger, and at the current rate who knew what Thurr would look like for the next generation? His people were not adapted for such rapid change. Having lived underground for as long as their histories were recorded, the dwarves and their culture had not changed in centuries. They kept tabs on their neighbors, and had the occasional oddity, like Zorbin, who brought back news of other nations, but for the most part they were cut off from the world. Zorbin knew that, in order to survive, the dwarves would need to adapt in the years to come. Too much was changing to exclude them. He hoped that this show of support to the kingdom of Valdadore would be the first step of many that would lead his people into a new era of cooperation with the other races. An era that they would not only survive, but thrive in.
Reaching up to scratch Xanth behind his ear, Zorbin looked up to the sun to calculate the time. As his eyes scanned skyward he noted from his higher position upon a mount, a large plume of smoke in the distance. Rising into the sky, the dark column then was caught upon the wind and carried away from the dwarves.
The possibilities flooded his mind as he turned to his companion.
“Linaya,” he said, gaining her attention. “Do ye see that smoke in the distance?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Be there a town in that direction?” Zorbin asked, and waited patiently as she thought.
“I think Smirole is off that way, but with nothing to get my bearings, and my limited knowledge of the area, I have no way of being certain.”
“That be enough for me, m’lady. Now if you’ll excuse me a moment,” Zorbin said, before leaning forward in his saddle.
Without more than a thought Xanth leapt forward into a dead run, carrying Zorbin as if he weighed nothing at all. Veering left, they moved to circumvent the army before veering to the right again. Running parallel to the army, they reached the front after several minutes and sought out the familiar face of Gumbi, head war counselor to the newly crowned king of the dwarves.
“Gumbi, my friend,” Zorbin began. “There is smoke off our course to the north a bit, and a lot of it. Methinks a human town called Smirole may be in danger. We need be alterin’ course and see if we can help. There may be survivors if somethin’s gone amiss.”
“I’ll bring this consideration to the king’s ears,” Gumbi replied, and strode off across the front line of the marching Dwarven ranks.
Zorbin watched him go. He watched the exchange between Gumbi and the king. A moment later and the king nodded. Watching still, Zorbin witnessed as Gumbi produced a small horn from a pouch upon his side and, raising it to his lips, three short blasts followed by one long one pierced the air over the thunderous pounding of Dwarven boots. With perfect precision the entire army altered course in the span of one footstep, each singular soldier turning slightly left of their current route. In a few short hours they would know the truth of what was causing the smoke.
Pleased, Zorbin leaned in his saddle once again and Xanth also altered his direction, and slowing they watched as the army marched past before once again joining Linaya.
“Getting what you wanted?” Linaya asked in response to Zorbin’s smile when he returned.
“Aye. It be hard to tell a fella no when he made you the king,” he replied with a wink.
Chapter Three
In the heavens, Gorandor growled at his brethren, his anger apparent from his every motion. Though they all had felt the changes of late, it was Gorandor who had called the meeting. It was he who had pieced together what it was that was transpiring. It was he, the god of honor and valor, who showed them the error in their ways.
“Time has been altered. The fate and destiny of Thurr has been tangled,” he began, slamming one massive fist into his open hand. “We cannot continue reacting to what is occurring in the world we made. We must stop the change before it is beyond our power.”
“We done that once before, if ye remember,” replied Ximlin, the Dwarven god who now appeared as one of his stout followers. “Ishanya learned nothing from her punishment but more hate and more greed.”
Gorandor watched as the other ethereal heads nodded in agreement, and resumed his pacing. It was true what Ximlin said, but if they did not act soon, they would be too weak to retaliate.
“Then we try something new.”
“And what does the mighty Gorandor suggest?” asked Lorentia, the goddess of nurturing and healing.
“What do we know about what she has changed and what she plans?” Gorandor asked the gathering.
“She has created her own champion and made him an abomination,” offered one of the many gods.
“She altered the tapestry of fate, opening us all up to dangers,” added another.
“She seeks to gather followers from all the races,” added a third. “Though I doubt the elves will follow, nor the dwarves if they still recall her history.”
Gorandor listened to each of his kind. They all had a different perspective, each having learned different traits from the peoples they had once inhabited. They spoke of the winged beast the abomination had created. They spoke of the abomination’s lover and wife. They fleshed out every detail of the happenings upon Thurr that had any connection with the strand that served as the abomination’s fate. And there were multitudes of connections to discuss. They spoke of subtle influences and alterations they could make that would not disrupt time and destiny, simp
ly guide it.
In mere hours upon Thurr the gods managed years of careful planning, coming to several logical and carefully constructed decisions.
“We shall see if we are right,” said Valenore, the druidic god of creation. “I will intervene and see if it goes unnoticed. But I dare not remove the blight the abomination planted within my followers. Ishanya would be sure to notice.”
“Fair,” Gorandor agreed. “See to the plague, then. If we cannot dismantle her plan without danger, then we shall make it impossible for her to control.”
Nods again filled the gathering, and then all were gone. Gorandor stared out across the tapestry that intertwined time, fate, and destiny, and watched as tiny possibilities already began to weave themselves into threads that created events. Just their decision to act was having a positive effect on the outcome, though it was only a chance, and a miniscule one at that.
As possibilities were not a constant, the tapestry had frayed endings. Looking across the expanse of time Gorandor saw infinite possibilities, but paid special attention to three. Free will of their creations made any of them a possible outcome, but these three were at present the most likely to occur.
In the first and most likely occurrence, Ishanya was victorious in her plan and eventually Gorandor and his brethren all succumbed to her. Beyond that he could not see, as in that possibility he no longer existed.
The next that troubled him was a possibility where Ishanya was again defeated, and this time it was she who came to an end. Looking beyond her demise, fate hinted that another of the gods would take her place as a usurper to their equal and combined efforts.
The third and final possibility simply ended. Whether the meaning was that Thurr itself came to an end, Gorandor could not be sure. All he knew for certain was that the most common thread shared amongst all three possibilities was the life of the abomination himself.
Age of the Gods: The Complete, twelve novel, fantasy series (The Blood and Brotherhood Saga) Page 125
