Aethir

by DeWayne Kunkel

  “I felt the same as you do now G’thur.” Connell said. “But it is the truth nonetheless. I have come to petition my father to aid Gaelan and protect the eastern lands from the Morne.” Connell looked to the Spire looming above them. “I have come bearing ill tidings. I carry a heavy burden to lay upon him that will cost us dearly in lives.”

  G’thur turned his mount back towards the spire. “Here I was thinking war with Ao’dan was bad.” He started moving forward once more. “This storm god is nonsense you know Connell. He died thousands of years ago if he ever did live.”

  “He is an immortal G’thur.” Marcos answered. “At one time he was among the most powerful of the Tal’shear.”

  “Bah!” G’thur exclaimed. “Nothing more than a bard’s fairy tale if you ask me.”

  “The legends are true G’thur.” Connell replied forestalling any response from Marcos. “Dark things from our worst nightmares are stirring the world over. I have seen the terrors myself, in the forest of Lakarra. Trust me, G’thur there are some things no man should see.”

  It took them nearly an hour to press through the crowded streets. Rising above the throng of the cities citizens stood a second wall. Rising forty feet it was constructed of blocks of stone as red as the Spire within its confines. A single gate of bronze, emblazoned with the winged lion marked this wall. The portal was sealed shut with no guards standing before it.

  Stopping before the gate G’thur waved to the manned rampart above the closed opening. “Hoy,” He shouted. “Who holds the watch?”

  “That would be Tomarc of the first blade.” One of the men above shouted down.

  “Inform the good captain that G’thur of the Home guard would speak with him.”

  “Tell him yourself,” A voice sounded nearby.

  Standing in the slightly opened postern gate an armored man laughed. He wore a mail shirt beneath a breastplate of deep scarlet. “G’thur you’re a long way from the forest.” The man said shaking the old warriors hand. “What business would bring you into the city?” He asked eyeing the party of strangers escorted by G’thur’s men.

  “Only the most pressing Tomarc.” G’thur nodded towards Connell. “It would seem a wayward son has found his way home to his fathers house.”

  Tomarc looked at Connell and then back at G’thur. “I’m sorry I don’t understand.”

  “That’s because you and Prince Connell hear are close to the same age. You never did see the King in his youth.” G’thur pointed to Connell. “That’s the look of him during his prime.”

  Tomarc looked at Connell in disbelief. “This vagabond is the Prince?”

  “I may be trail weary,” Connell said. “But there’s coin in my pocket.”

  G’thur laughed, “It would seem that Tomarc has placed his legendary foot into his mouth. I assure you that this is Prince Connell, Wolhan’s heir.”

  Tomarc could see that G’thur was serious. His face turned as scarlet as the breastplate he wore. “Forgive me my Prince.” He said with a bow.

  Connell grinned, “Done good sir. I prefer men who speak their minds and not flowery platitudes.”

  “Are you going to allow us entry or not Tomarc?” G’thur asked.

  “Of course,” The guard answered. “But I must ask you to leave your horses here.” He said apologetically. “The King’s orders.”

  Connell dismounted, “No matter, it’s a long walk but after so many weeks on horseback it will be a welcome relief.”

  “Leave your gear as well,” Tomarc added. “My men will bring it up the Spire for you after your mounts are seen to.” He waved his hand and a group of guards stepped through the gate taking the reins from their hands.

  Connell adjusted the sword upon his hip and with a nod to Tomarc he stepped through the gate.

  G’thur turned his horse about, “Good luck Connell.” He said in parting.

  Casius was not prepared for the sight that greeted him on the other side of the wall. He had expected more of the ornate stonework found in the city, spiral columns and graceful archways.

  He stepped out onto a cobblestone pathway through a lamp lit garden. Though wilted by the lingering winter the foliage was lush. Hedges of brown tinged leaves were trimmed with care. Bordering the many pathways around the grass-covered mounds marking the resting place of one of Kesh’s honored dead. Had it been spring the colors of a thousand different flowering plants would have stunned the eye with their beauty.

  Atop the mounds simple markers of white marble told the story of the man or woman lying beneath. Casius was curious but he would not dare walk atop the tomb to read what was written there.

  In the center of the park stood the rough stone of the spire rising nearly vertical from the rich soil. Spiraling up its steep side a narrow roadway lined with glimmering lamps ended at the edifice of the keep itself far overhead.

  “How many tombs lay within this garden?” D’Yana asked stunned by the number of mounds she could see.

  “Over ten thousand,” Connell answered taking in a view that was a dim memory from his youth.

  “So many,” Casius said softly.

  “Aye,” Connell agreed. “Kesh has had a bloody history and many good men have died in her service.”

  “Only a few are remembered here,” Tomarc added. “It is by deed or birthright that one earns the honor of the Wyrenatt. Most who have died in the crowns service are buried on the fields where they fell.

  They walked in silence through the orderly rows of tombs, until coming at last to the base of the Spire and the road leading up along its flank.

  Tomarc stopped and looked at the trail worn group. He could see that they were tired and had little rest over the last few weeks. “I can have a wagon sent down for you, it is a long walk after all.”

  Casius considered the steepness of the grade ahead and the narrowness of the road. He came to the conclusion that to walk would be safer than trusting a wagon not to roll of the edge. “Walk,” He answered before anyone else could reply.

  Tomarc looked to the others but saw only agreement with the young man. “Very well.” He turned and started up the steep roadway.

  The walk was taxing; they stopped twice to rest during the ascent. Only Suni and Marcos seemed to be unaffected by the climb. They waited patiently for their companions to recover, even Tomarc was slightly winded and he was amazed at the stamina of the two men.

  The sun had set and the sky was a black curtain strewn with a multitude of shining gems overhead. Below them the entire city was aglow with lamplight. Beyond the buildings thousands of campfires burned among the tents on the plain. Small and insignificant they appeared from the heights.

  The road made fourteen complete circuits about the crimson stone. They were forced near the wall as a group of fifty armed men marched past. Warriors of the first blade Connell informed them as the men passed, relief for the watch now guarding the Wyremounds.

  The road ended in a broad plaza over two hundred feet across. Its outer edge guarded by a railing carved from the very rock of the Spire. The fascia of the keep stood several stories above them. The stone carved by master craftsmen long ago. Tall fluted columns and deep archways all done in bas-relief cast deep shadows by the lamplight.

  A single arched opening led into the heart of the spire. It was as massive as the gates below. Thirty feet high and forty wide, the two doors within its shelter were of polished brass etched with gold. The doors stood slightly ajar, flooding the plaza with bright light.

  Before the door way stood a gigantic statue of burnished gold. A winged lion rearing up upon its hind legs, its titanic claws tearing at the night sky. A crown of dark iron graced its brow a hundred feet above them. Within it a fire burned wreathing the snarling head in a mane of living flame. The unfurled wings were pulled back the heavy pinions gracefully touching the keeps edifice.

  It was beneath this imposing artifact that any who would enter the keep must pass, for the arched doorway lay between the hind legs. Framed by paws each t
he size of a small house.

  “The last legacy of Amthur, gilded with the gold taken in conquest. It was left as a reminder of the depravity of a mad ruler, in the hopes that we would never again follow a madman’s edict.” Connell said looking to the fire burning upon the beast’s head with concern.

  Far above the statue the parapets and towers receded into the darkness. Above it all, silhouetted against the stars stood a lone needle thin spire poised as if to strike into the vault of heaven.

  Casius was at a loss for words, he had never imagined that such a place could truly exist. “Such a marvel,” Were the only words he could find to describe his thoughts.

  Only Connell and Marcos seemed unmoved by the sights about them. Even the stoic Suni was openly staring at the massive structure.

  A sad look came to Marcos’s eyes. “This is a mere echo of what once stood here.” He said. “Gone are the lofty towers of learning and the gardens of unrivaled beauty that were crowned with rainbows from the waters of a hundred falls. Leaders of the world gathered here in peace, war was unknown to men of those days. That was a scourge brought here by the darkness in later days.”

  “The guardians crown burns,” Connell said sadly. “Never would I have thought to see it in my lifetime.”

  “Kesh is at war,” Tomarc said looking up to the flames. “The fires of conflict have been lit.”

  Connell took his eyes off the flickering flames. “Lead on Tomarc.” He said in a confident voice. “I will have words with my father.”

  Tomarc looked as if he would rather cast himself off the courtyards edge than face what he assumed would be an eventful reunion. He straightened his belt and stepped under the statue leading the way to the open door.

  Chapter Eight

  Beyond the doorway they stepped into a great hall unlike any other in the world, its splendor taking their breath away. Over four stories in height, and crowned with a vaulted ceiling of gold. A row of slender columns ran down each side of the hall. Supporting two balconies, adorned with colorful pendants of scarlet and gold hanging from the railings.

  The floor was tiled in light and dark marble, polished to a mirror like finish that reflected the gilded lanterns that hung from the columns. The hall was two hundred feet long at its far end stood another arched opening that led to a broad stair that rose upward into the Spires depths.

  Two armored men stood sentry on either side of the doorway. They recognized Tomarc and snapped to attention as he passed. Tomarc nodded to them in recognition of their salute.

  Their footsteps echoed loudly as they crossed the hall. Casius could see his reflection in the floor and he was ashamed by his bedraggled appearance. He was feeling out of place and had no right to be in such a grand palace.

  Up the stair they climbed passing several landings, each guarded by a pair of grim faced warriors. The stairs ended in a large circular chamber with a domed ceiling of white marble. The walls were covered with rich tapestries depicting various scenes of the Spire and the surrounding countryside. A pair of large gilded doors faced them from across the landing at its side stood several guards. They snapped at attention when they saw Tomarc.

  In the rooms center stood a large table, upon its polished surface lay twelve swords and an odd assortment of belt knives of various sizes.

  Tomarc stopped at the table and gestured to its surface. “Place all your weapons here.” He said. “No one goes before the king armed, to do so is to suffer the penalty of death.”

  Suni looked to Marcos, his face an expressionless mask. Marcos nodded to him as he set his own sword beside the others. Suni paused for a moment before placing his Kalmari on the tabletop. Casius and Connell laid their weapons on the table and stepped aside, making room for D’Yana.

  She surprised them all as she set down her long knives and then produced two dirks from her boots. She then pulled a dagger from her sleeve and a thin throwing blade from her belt.

  “Is that all?” Connell asked shaking his head in amusement.

  D’Yana smiled. “I’ve been traveling light.”

  Tomarc looked at D’Yana in amazement, hesitating for a brief instant before motioning the guards to open the doors.

  They swung open revealing a room beyond that made the grand entry hall appear drab in comparison. The room was a broad oval shape, it’s walls paneled with intricately carved polished wood. Artisans had fashioned the panels into a lush forest complete with jeweled eyed animals.

  The floor was polished marble with a detailed map of Kesh fashioned from various colors of stone inlaid into it. A raised dais lay within an alcove on the far wall. Upon it stood a gilded throne beneath a large stone of milky quartz suspended by a thin chain of gold.

  Tables and upholstered chairs filled the floor before the throne. Fifty or more men stood about them riffling through scrolls and maps on ancient parchment. All discussion in the room ended abruptly as the doors opened revealing the travel-stained companions.

  Out from among the group of men stepped a lone figure. The King of Kesh was a man long past his prime, reed thin with snow-white hair. His skin was dark and leathery; the years of riding the open plains had left their mark upon him.

  He walked with the same uncanny grace as Connell, his thin body still harboring much of the strength that it had held in his youth. Dressed in heavy robes with only a thin circlet of gold upon his brow, he looked more like a merchant than the King of one of the world’s most powerful nations.

  At seventy-two years of age he was still a deadly opponent. His sword more than a match for those even a third of his age. The Kings eyes narrowed when he looked at Connell, the makings of a scowl forming on his ruddy lips.

  Tomarc bowed with his right hand over his heart. “My liege,” He said with a touch of nervousness in his voice. “Prince Connell has returned.”

  The silence in the room vanished as a hundred whispered questions floated about the tables.

  “Leave us,” The King said softly.

  The men did not hesitate; the voice though barely heard was edged with iron. Chairs scrapped as those near the King rushed to obey. A few men across the room had failed to hear the command and watched the others leave.

  “Leave us!” king Wolhan bellowed.

  A glass shattered on the floor and chairs were cast carelessly aside as the remaining men fled the chamber. As the last of the men rushed past, Tomarc left the room pulling the doors closed behind him.

  The sound of the doors latching echoed in the chamber. The King said nothing he studied each one of them in turn with eyes the color of glacial ice and twice as cold.

  Casius flinched beneath the man’s gaze; suddenly he had the desire to be anywhere but in this room. Even the Nallen wood in Lakarra had been more welcoming.

  King Wolhan crossed his arms and locked eyes with his son. “No longer do I see an arrogant child before me.” He said in a studied voice. “The years have honed you into a man.”

  “I see the years have been kind to you as well, my King.” Connell said with a slight bow.

  “A silver tongue?” King Wolhan asked, surprised by Connell’s response. “What happened to that razor edged instrument of your pride?”

  “The years have taught me much father.” Connell answered. “I regret many of the foolish things I said that day.”

  The King nodded, “As do I.” He relaxed his stance and the scowl upon his face eased. “It does my heart good to see you, you’re home now that is all that matters.”

  “I cannot stay,” Connell said quickly. “I have come to deliver a petition from Gaelan. Trondhiem needs the aid of Kesh.”

  The King’s face darkened in anger, his eyes burned beneath his snowy brows. “Your duty is to Kesh, not Trondhiem!” King Wolhan snapped. “You are heir to this throne, like it or not your place is here.”

  “Am I not my fathers son?” Connell said through clenched teeth. “When Gared died this place became a prison, and I its sole occupant. The yoke you placed upon me though made of love was h
eavy, more than I would willingly abide.”

  “Speak not of Gared, Connell.” King Wolhan warned. “He was a worthy son who knew his duty.”

  An uneasy silence filled the room. Connell met his father’s gaze and chose to remain silent.

  King Wolhan shook his head; turning his back to them he walked towards the throne. “I will not rekindle the cold fires of half forgotten arguments with you son.” He took a deep breath before speaking once more. “Your brother’s death was an accident, perhaps in my grief I placed too many restrictions on you.” He rubbed his forehead before continuing. “I only wanted to keep you safe, a man should never have to face the death of his child.”

  “I know father,” Connell said letting go of his anger. “We can talk of this later, Gaelan needs our help now. Kesh is his last hope.”

  “Regicide is a crime, Connell.” The King said turning to face his son. “One made all the more heinous, when it is the fathers blood upon the son’s blade.”

  “Gaelan has done no such thing.” Connell said defensively. “You know him as well as I, He is an honorable man who loved his father.”

  “Honorable men have done far worse for less reward than a crown.” King Wolhan shook his head, “No, it is not our place to dictate the succession in Trondhiem.

  A civil war is brewing in those lands; a war between siblings can only come to a bad end. I will not entangle our people into what will be a blood bath for a crown not of their own.”

  “It was your half brother who was murdered,” Connell pleaded. “What of justice?”

  “Justice?” The King repeated. “How many lives is it worth? A thousand? Perhaps ten times that number will balance the scales? I will not ask mothers to lose their sons avenging my kin’s death.”

  “And yet you have called up the host,” Connell said walking towards his father. “You will ask those same mothers to lose their sons on the evidence of a few coins? Will war with Ao’dan be any different?”