by Greg Curtis
“Last vial.” One of the priests with Finell called it out, possibly to bring them all some cheer. But with the ground shaking so violently all around them, it didn’t help. Still Iros like everyone else, stared intently as Finell upended the last vial of glowing white liquid into Y’aris’ mouth and forced him to swallow it.
It probably only took a few seconds, half a minute perhaps, but it seemed like forever as Iros stood there waiting for something heavy to fall on his head. He spent the time constantly splitting his attention between looking upwards into the blackness and across to the altar.
“It’s done. Merriam.” Finell seemed impossibly calm as he made the announcement and called to another among them. Something that didn’t seem to fit well with the cracking sounds coming from all around them.
A man stepped forwards from the crowd, and Iros knew a moment of surprise as he recognised his robe.
“An advocate?”
For a moment Iros wondered if his eyes were deceiving him when he saw the advocate step forwards. In all his time in Leafshade he’d never even seen one. But then why would he? There were very few of them. The Father, Degas as he was called, was not a god who dealt much with the workings of the world. Unlike the Mother he cared nothing for lives or souls. Right and wrong were meaningless thoughts to him as were good and evil. His domain was purely of the physical. Of the laws of the world. Of dimension.
According to their beliefs Degas was the first; the god that had shaped the world out of the primal, formless sky that had been. He had shaped the sun and the moon and the stars. And he had separated the world from the underworlds and outworlds where the demons lived. And then he had created the laws by which they worked. He had built time and space. It was his wife Gaia who had taken his creation and breathed life into it while her husband rested.
Degas had no priests because he cared nothing for such petty creatures as mortals. He offered no rewards and no punishments. He accepted no offerings and provided no teachings. He wanted no temples. The world was his child, not the petty things that had made it their home.
But still there were some who followed him. Advocates they were called, because though they didn’t worship him, they advocated the law of the world. A few wizards followed him as well, because their magic worked within his domain. Summoners and wizards of time and space. Any whose spells could cross the span between worlds. They weren’t priests and they uttered no prayers to him. Instead of temples they had archives. Their purpose in following him was to gain knowledge, not to worship.
Advocates were few in number, very few. In Leafshade there was only one, and Iros had never met him as he was often away travelling. In Tendarin there was an archive where two advocates spent their days, and he had at least seen them in the distance on the busy streets. But still he recognised him for what he was. The long robes, black down one side and white down the other, could belong to no one else.
“How did you persuade an advocate to our cause?” And that was a true mystery. An advocate, like his lord Degas himself, cared nothing for death or suffering.
“We didn’t. The Reaver did. As he seeks to cross over and consume our world he violates the Father’s laws. He threatens to unmake what was made. That cannot be permitted. The advocate came to us when he knew what was planned by the Reaver. We share an enemy.” Did that make sense? Iros wasn’t sure. But he knew instinctively that an advocate would be the best choice for doing what needed to be done. With the power of the Father behind him, he could do what no mere wizard of dimension could.
Then the ground rose up all around him and hit him and he realised one thing more. The advocate needed to do it faster. Much faster as Iros found himself smashing into a wall. It hurt, the impact of his already tired flesh on the hard stone wall was bruising. But even before he’d found the floor Saris was with him, yapping away frantically, and he forgot his pain as he hugged the jackal hound tightly. Others had been sent flying as well, and he could hear their cries of pain all around.
The advocate raised his hands and stretched his arms out wide and began intoning something. Words he didn’t know. And though it appeared strange to him, it was almost as though the advocate had become two people in the one place. But when the first of the blocks came crashing down on to the stone floor and shattered, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that more would follow.
“Hold to the walls!” Iros yelled, knowing it was their best hope, and that it really wasn’t much hope at all. Still everyone heard and everyone understood. The walls were the closest thing they had to safety. They scattered and soon the centre of the underground amphitheatre had only two figures in it; the advocate still standing tall intoning his strange words, and Y’aris chained to the altar, screaming. Even Finell had vanished.
Pieces of stone began tumbling all around them, one by one and then more often. Soon they were falling like drops of rain, save that every time they hit the stone floor they exploded with the fury to match that of a cannon firing. And the noise from the explosions and the shaking was so great that he couldn’t hear anything else. But that was probably for the best when the only thing he wanted to ask was how much longer it would take, and no one could answer him. Saris huddling with him probably had as much knowledge as anyone else.
So instead he hunkered down against the wall with everyone else and prayed.
“Divines, bless your children.” The words were pulled out of him as they hadn’t been since he was a very small child. Not even in that foul dungeon he realised, had he prayed. Somewhere between his being a young boy and becoming a man, he had lost his faith.
This seemed like the perfect time to get it back.
Maybe it worked. Iros didn’t know. What he did know was that suddenly everything stopped. For a heartbeat that seemed to drag for an eternity, nothing happened. The advocate, now at least a dozen versions of himself all somehow overlaid on the same spot, stood there silently. Y’aris had stopped screaming too, but as he lay there straining against his chains Iros knew he was trying to. It was simply that no sound would come out. Even the stones had stopped falling. And all around him everything was still. It was a moment of complete calm.
And then something happened. Where Y’aris lay bound to the altar something dark and evil, something truly massive, and above all else hungry, had arrived. It wasn’t really there. Only the tiniest fraction of it had emerged into the temple, and even that little was only partly there. But it frightened Iros in a way that nothing else could.
It frightened Y’aris too as he lay there, silently screaming. He knew complete terror as he saw his master for the first time. But though he strained against the chains with all the strength his broken body could find, it was too late. Because just as the Reaver was only half there, so too was the pestilent little elf. They were both partly in the world and partly in the Reaver’s underworld at the same time.
Iros could just make out the word on Y’aris’ lips, the final word he would ever try to say, and it surprised him. He would have expected him to beg. To plead for his life as he had all the way as they’d carried him down to the temple. But instead was asking why? It was as if Y’aris had no understanding of his crimes.
Then the advocate brought his steel staff down on the ground, screamed a word Iros didn’t recognise, and they all vanished. The elf, the altar and the demon.
Suddenly things started happening again Time started moving again. People started running as the stones resumed falling, and the noise was like thunder. But over it all he could still hear the lingering echo of Y’aris’ final terrified shriek.
It should have made him happy. It should have brought him a sense of justice and completion. It didn’t. Taking Finell’s head might have. It had seemed such a righteous act in the chamber. But this, whatever this was, was simply too terrible. Nothing should ever go to that creature in the darkness. Even though Y’aris had sent so many others to it. Seeing him taken, knowing that he had played a part in it, Iros felt almost guilty. Unclea
n.
The shaking stopped at least, and a few heartbeats later the stones stopped falling as well. Evidence maybe that it was over? But as he picked himself up and stared at the empty space where once there had been an altar and an elf chained to it, Iros wasn’t sure. Looking around at the sea of uncertain faces surrounding him, he guessed no one was. He didn’t know what to do. To cheer? To leave? Or to wait for something else to happen?
“Is it over? Should we go?” One of the soldiers asked the obvious question, but no one answered him. No one knew. Iros spotted the commander standing against the far wall, the same questions surely flowing through his thoughts, as he in turn stared helplessly at the priest of Silene.
Ericus though didn’t answer. Instead, he stood still, staff planted in the stone before him with his head bowed in prayer, facing the empty centre of the chamber. And he wasn’t alone. The other priests began taking their places beside him and bowing their heads.
It wasn’t over. That much Iros understood, even though he didn’t know what was coming. What he did know was that there were priests everywhere. Elders, clerics of Dibella, priests of Silene and so many others. Where had they all come from? Why were they all circling the empty space where once there had been an altar? And what were they waiting for?
Then it happened, and he suddenly understood. It was a breath of fresh air that his lungs didn’t take in. A song that his ears didn’t hear. Light that his eyes didn’t see. It was joy and happiness, release and righteousness. It was the return.
Somewhere in his underworld, the Reaver had either died or suffered some terrible injury, and all those souls he had consumed had burst free from him. They had burst loose and begun their journey to whatever came next. The cycle of life and death had been restored.
It was a stampede. Thousands maybe millions of souls all streaming past them in a rush of joy and release. They sang and they laughed as they rushed to their final reward. It was a celebration. Iros’s cheeks were wet with tears of joy though he didn’t know why. But he knew that his weren’t the only wet cheeks there. And he didn’t care.
Not until after the last of them had streaked by and the time had passed.
“So boy, rediscovered your faith have you?” Suddenly Elder Yossirion was standing before him, laughing silently, and Iros knew he had seen everything. He didn’t care though. Not with the memory of that happiness still singing inside him. He did wonder though, why the elder had what looked like a baby eagle perched on his shoulder. Where could he have found an eagle in this place?
“Oh leave the boy alone you old goat.” Trekor was suddenly there too, a grin far too large for her face still trying to make its home there. “Can’t you see he’s had a long day? The last thing he needs is your pitiful attempt at wit.”
She was jesting, but there was truth in her words. Not in that he minded the elder’s wit. Only in that he suddenly knew that there was something he had to do first. They all did.
“People.” Iros raised his voice a little to be heard over the slowly growing commotion. “Let’s destroy this foul place and go home.”
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty.
Iros felt sorry for his horse as they galloped up the main street through town. The poor animal had been ridden too hard for too long, and she was tired. He could hear her laboured breathing, see the flecks of foam around her nostrils. But still she was trying her best, and the castle wasn’t that much further.
“Good girl.” He patted her neck for encouragement, and somehow they carried on up the clay street, passing by surprised citizens who kept bursting into applause when they saw him. He wasn’t quite sure why. The battle had been won weeks before, and pigeons had been sent, so they should have finished their celebrations ages ago. Then again, maybe he shouldn’t be wearing his cape. It told the people who he was, and not that he was just another soldier in a hurry. But then Saris running happily beside him probably told them the same thing anyway.
He wondered briefly if the rangers would receive the same rapturous welcome as they rode into Greenlands. He hoped so. They deserved it. But in any case they were at least a days ride behind him, so when they finally did arrive, he would be there to officially welcome them.
Was it wrong to have left them behind? Should he have remained to travel with them? To formally bring them home? He didn’t know. What he did know was that he couldn’t wait. Once they’d entered Greenlands and he’d known he would be safe on his own, he’d left them to carry on at their own pace while he’d ridden day and night.
Iros was eager to see his pregnant wife. His beloved wife who according to the pigeon he’d received weeks before, had offered herself up as bait for the abominations. That still shocked him. Even though he knew Sophelia had survived the fact that she had taken such a risk was unthinkable. Especially when she was carrying their child. Anything could have happened.
Eventually Iros reached the gates to the castle and all other thoughts fled. He gave the startled guards a wave as he galloped under the portcullis. The guards in turn stared at him briefly, before they started yelling orders at one another. By then of course, Iros was half way across the courtyard. Up ahead a groom was waiting for him, and he saw someone else rush inside the castle to send word to the court. That was good, but it would have been better if either of them had been wearing their armour correctly. How could his men have come through an entire war without learning such a basic part of a soldier’s life? Still?
“Lord Drake.” The groom bowed low to him as he brought his mare to a stop, even though Iros had never asked anyone to bow to him at all. A nod was plenty as far as he was concerned, and most of the time, even that was too much. Still he couldn’t find it within him to bother about such things as he dismounted.
“Give this horse a good rub down and plenty of food and fresh water.” He handed the groom the reins and hurried inside before he could answer him.
In the great room things were in disarray. People were rushing around madly, calling to one another as though they were desperately late for an important event, and nearly falling over each other in their panic. He wasn’t sure why save that it possibly had something to do with his early arrival. But he was annoyed when, like the groom they too kept bowing to him, and he repeatedly told them to stop it.
Court he gathered had just wound up before, and most of the nobles and petitioners had left. But a few remained, and they rushed to him determined to pester him, possibly unhappy with whatever decision they’d been given and hoping he would change things. They were out of luck of course, and he told them all to go home.
“Iros!” He heard her voice, and instantly forgot about the annoying court as he looked up to see his wife at the side entrance to the hall. His beautiful, blue haired wife with her belly so lovely and round.
“Sophelia.” He hurried to her, pushing people aside as he did, and soon had her in his arms. She was warm and soft and her breath in his so very sweet when they kissed, that he knew he never wanted to let her go again. They had been apart for too long already. And then he remembered what she’d done. What she’d risked.
“Bait!” While Iros was overwhelmingly grateful to have his wife back in his arms, there were still things to discuss before he got her back to their bedchamber. Or maybe as he carried her back to their bedchamber. “You offered yourself as bait!”
The very idea was unthinkable. And yet he knew she’d done it. And he knew as she melted into him that there were other things that needed to be done, urgently. Iros dropped his sword belt to the floor, picked up his wife and carried her out of the main hall and down the corridors while behind them people started clapping.
“No more meetings today.” He shouted it at anyone and everyone behind him and gave not a damn who they were, if they heard him or what they did about it. “The war’s over, the temple’s destroyed, and I’m busy!”
The bards he knew would have a great time with that. The lord who rushed home from battle just to be with his wife. Chances were that they’
d be singing those airs in every inn and alehouse in the town within the hour. Not that he cared.
“And you. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.” He might be kissing her furiously as he said it, and in a desperate hurry to do a lot more, but he was not going to forget her heroic recklessness any time soon, and she had to know.
“It worked,” Sophelia appealed softly. But she was more interested in kissing him than defending herself. Not to mention untying the straps to his armour, pieces of which were clattering on the stone floor behind them.
“Hmmph! That’s the last time I leave you in charge of the town.” They reached the stairs and something metallic crashed to the stone floor behind them. He didn’t turn around to see what it was.
“We made a good fist of it. Forty thousand of those things dead and not a single injury.”
Iros hmmphed again, though he couldn’t really argue with her logic. Only with the fact that their bedchamber was on the first floor. Which fool had decided on that? So he changed the subject.
“What are you wearing?” As he reached the first floor landing he suddenly realised that she wasn’t wearing her normal elven robes. Instead it was some sort of creamy crushed velvet dress that tied up just under her breasts instead of around her waist.
