The Shadow Of Fallen Gods

by V. R. Cardoso

  “Your footwork is sloppy,” Clea told Artax, the company’s new addition, swiping his sword easily aside. “You’re always off-balance.” She proceeded to demonstrate by casually kicking his left knee. The poor guy fell flat on his face.

  “Go easy on him, Clea,” Aric said. “I can’t use him if you break him.”

  “Just toughening the rookie up a bit, Captain.”

  Aric nodded, smiling, and sat down next to the fire. One by one, the hunters joined him, forming a circle around the roasting sand sparrows and desert hares Irenya and Lyra had prepared. It was a feast compared to what they usually had during a patrol. Animals were rare in the deep desert. Usually, they had to be satisfied with some nibbles on rock-hard cheese, salted meat, maybe some old bread if they were lucky. Tonight, however, there were even a couple of wine bags circling from hand to hand.

  “Captain,” Orisius said, holding his mandolin, “may I?”

  Aric shrugged. “I’m sure there isn’t a single dragon in miles. By all means.”

  There were some cheers and Orisius quickly started playing a cheerful tune. It was an old Samehrian song, popular in every tavern in the empire. Soon, everyone in the company was singing. Except, of course, for Aric and Leth. Being noble-born, this wasn’t exactly the sort of song they were used to – or enjoyed. But when Aric glanced at Leth, even he was giggling at the raunchier portion of the lyrics.

  They ate and drank until the wine bags were empty and only the bones of the hares and sparrows were left. The singing grew quieter as the group became sleepier, and finally, Orisius got tired and put his mandolin away, his head resting on Irenya’s lap.

  The group became silent, the sky now dark above them. A soft wind was whistling, rattling dry bushes everywhere, a coyote howling in the distance.

  Tharius propped himself up on his elbows. “Hey, Leth, why did you join the Guild?”

  Aric’s Lieutenant was sitting with his back to a wheel of one of the wagons. He held Clea with both arms as if she was a warm blanket. “For the thousandth time, I don’t like to talk about it.”

  “And for the thousandth time, I’ll keep asking until you do.”

  Leth rolled his eyes. “This is a game you can’t win, volunteer. I’m a very patient man.”

  Clea twisted so she could look at Leth. “No, you’re not.”

  “See, that’s the thing,” Tharius said. “You all call me volunteer as if I’m the only one in the company, but a third of you volunteered as well. I want to know why you joined.”

  “Come on!” Dothea threw her arms in the air, exasperated. “Not this again. They’re not volunteers! Not really, anyway. They were forced to volunteer. They’re not like you, they don’t think dragon hunting is some noble cause or whatever. No one does.”

  “I do,” Athan said timidly. “Dragons are mother Ava’s enemies. Our job is the noblest of all.”

  “Alright,” Dothea conceded. “No one except the priest.”

  Athan raised a finger, ready to protest that he wasn’t a priest, but Tharius spoke over him.

  “That doesn’t make sense. If you’re volunteering against your will, you’re not volunteering at all.”

  “Exactly!”

  Tharius gave Dothea a sheepish look then shared it with the rest of the company. “I don’t get it.”

  Jullion broke into a laugh, quickly followed by Trissa, Ergon, and Orisius.

  “Just let it be, Thar,” Aric said. “People have a right to their secrets.”

  Poor Tharius dropped the subject, looking miserable. As the fire died, the group was swallowed by darkness. One by one, the hunters unsheathed their Glowstone weapons, sticking them in the sand or simply laying them beside themselves like lamps.

  “I miss my bed,” Lyra moaned, trying to flatten the lumps of sand beneath her.

  “Tell me about it…” Artax agreed, his usually pink cheeks painted blue by the array of Glowstone crystals around them.

  “Oh, shut up, rookie,” Jullion said. “What do you know about the desert?”

  Artax was new to the company. Having just graduated Saruk’s course, this was his first patrol. Not that the rest of the twenty-third was much more experienced. They had graduated less than a year ago, but that wasn’t why Jullion disliked him. The truth was Artax was Prion’s replacement, and even though he could hardly be blamed for his predecessor’s death, that didn’t keep Jullion from treating him like he was.

  Ashur and Jullion had been the closest in the company to Prion. When Grand-Master Sylene had sentenced him to the Pilgrimage for desertion, both had clung to the notion that Prion could survive. They had waited for weeks and weeks, leaning out the windows of the mountain fortress, scanning the dunes in the hopes of seeing Prion staggering back home. They had been lying to themselves, of course. Everyone knew no one survived the Pilgrimage. Aric had done the only thing he could to help his former hunter – he’d had him killed, quickly and painlessly. It wasn’t much help at all, but at least he had saved Prion from the torture of a slow death at the hands of the Mahar. He knew all too well how cruel the desert could be.

  “Who would have thought,” Leth said. “We actually miss that smelly hole that is our bunk.”

  “It wouldn’t be smelly if Ashur kept his boots on,” Trissa said, yanking laughter from half the company.

  Ashur was going to snap back at her when a shadow lunged over him, sharp fangs and teeth shimmering in the blue light of the Glowstone weapons.

  Ashur jumped. “Fire take me!” he yelped. “I freaking hate that cat.”

  Geric, Aric’s pet desert lynx, paraded himself among the giggling group.

  “You shouldn’t talk to him like that, Ashur,” Aric said, welcoming Geric in a hug as the cat proceeded to lick his face from chin to forehead. “He’s the only one who likes your smelly boots.”

  The whole company laughed. It was true, Geric did like Ashur’s boots. He had already chewed through four pairs of them.

  “Very funny…” Ashur mumbled, covering himself with a blanket and turning on his side.

  The laughter died and conversation scattered. Aric watched his hunters quietly, his cat nestling beside him. Leth pulled a book from his satchel and started reading, Clea snoozing on his shoulder. Orisius and Irenya whispered in each other’s ears, giggling occasionally. Nahir got up and began his evening series of pushups and sit-ups. Athan lit his prayer flask and whispered to his goddess. Lyra had fallen asleep, and her brother, Ergon, adjusted her blanket before closing his own eyes. Trissa, Dothea, Tharius, and Artax played cards, the two boys cursing under their breaths as the girls won round after round, grinning.

  Aric sighed. This, right here, was home. Sure, Lamash was far more comfortable, but even here, in the sand, without a roof over their heads, it still felt more like home than Augusta ever had.

  In a way, it didn’t feel right. If the rumors were true, his brother, mother, and father were now fugitives, being hunted down like dogs by the emperor. How could he simply sit back, comfortably, when his real family was in such danger? Shouldn’t he try to help them? Wasn’t that what a good son and a good brother would have done?

  So why didn’t he? Why hadn’t he tried to flee north? Why couldn’t he abandon his new family?

  The questions tumbled in his mind as he stared into the star-speckled sky, an arm around Geric’s warm fur. His eyelids became heavier and heavier and, just as he faded into sleep, he would have sworn the stars took the shape of Cassia, Fadan, and Doric.

  * * *

  Sand became gradually darker as the dunes turned into the tall mountain ranges where the fortress of Lamash had been sculpted, nearly two thousand years ago. It was a sight to behold, one Aric was sure would never fail to take his breath away. Five mountain peaks, tethered to each other by dozens of stone bridges, speckled by row upon row of windows, balconies, turrets, and terraces.

  It was home.

  “I’m going to sleep for a whole week,” Trissa groaned, slumping on the lance she was using as
a cane. “I swear to the goddess.”

  Aric glanced over his shoulder. His hunters formed protectively around the wagon containing their prize – the blood of their latest dragon kill. They were beyond exhausted. He could see it in the way their shoulders drooped slightly to one side, how their feet dragged across the sand. They were tough. True dragon hunters with five kills under their belts, one before they had even graduated. They were the ones who had faced off against a dark wizard of the Circle of Archons and stopped an evil god from being revived, but even they were no match for the Mahari desert.

  “Half-Princes!” Aric shouted, summoning energy he no longer had. His hunters did not let him down, their backs straightening, their shoulders widening. “We’re almost home. Let’s show our brothers and sisters up there how the twenty-third crosses the desert.”

  The company raised their weapons, releasing a “Hurrah!”

  “Double-time, on my mark.” Aric sent an arm forward and dashed away.

  The company followed, matching his speed. It wasn’t exactly a screaming sprint, just a brisk jog. Still, considering how steep the mountain was, it was surely impressive enough. Most of the Guildsmen in Lamash would be watching their brothers and sisters return. They would welcome the twenty-third with a feast after a display like this.

  They ran up the twisting path of the mountain. Aric was proud to see none of his hunters so much as slowed. In fact, he was sure the horse pulling the blood wagon would give up before any of them.

  When they finally reached the top, they came to halt. The draw bridge had been lowered, but there was no one there to welcome them. Not even the usual sentinels.

  “Well,” Leth said, his chest heaving, “this is anti-climactic.”

  “Where is everyone?” Tharius asked, panting and wiping sweat from his brow.

  “Probably just a stupid prank,” Dothea said. “A bottle of burning water it was Andraid’s idea.”

  Aric signaled them forward and they crossed the draw bridge, the wooden platform floating five hundred feet above a gorge, a cluster of sharp boulders like teeth waiting at the bottom for anyone unfortunate enough to miss a step. The clattering of the horse’s hooves and the wagon’s wheels on the entrance hall’s stone slabs echoed all around as the company scrambled to the water fountains trickling in the walls.

  Aric drank a couple of mouthfuls then splashed water over his face. His wet fingers ran through his long, golden curls. They felt dry as parchment, as if they would crack at his touch and fall away.

  Goddess, I need a bath…

  “Seriously, where is everybody?” Tharius asked, water dripping from his month-long beard.

  “Probably in the dining hall,” Aric replied. “Just waiting to pounce on us.”

  And then he heard it. At first, it was just a faint thrashing, but the sound quickly turned into the massive thundering echo of dozens of boots pounding the floor. The company huddled in the center of the entrance hall, watching in perplexity as a small army of Paladins marched across the great hall of Lamash. With their black cuirasses and red waistbands, the Paladins poured into the entrance hall, forming a circle and lowering their lances.

  Aric looked around at the deadly cage surrounding his hunters. “What is this?” he demanded.

  “Aric Auron,” one of the Paladins said, a great feather in his helmet signaling him as the leader. He marched forward until he was an arm’s length away from Aric. “In the name of Tarsus V, you are under arrest.”

  2

  The Halls of the Rebellion

  Fadan woke with a jolt. He looked at the hand grabbing his shoulder and followed the arm attached to it. His magic tutor, Sabium, looked down on him with blue eyes, his features wrinkled like old parchment.

  “Time for your meeting,” Sabium told him, long white beard wobbling beneath his mouth.

  Blinking his eyes back into focus, Fadan took stock of his surroundings. He sat at his desk in Sabium’s study, a mess of books and parchment rolls spread across the tabletop in front of him.

  “I fell asleep?” Fadan asked.

  “You did.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “I just did.” Sabium turned around and walked to his own desk. A massive tome nearly the size of the tabletop awaited him, open about a third of the way in.

  “I mean earlier!”

  “You needed to sleep.”

  “I needed to learn magic,” Fadan argued.

  “Actually, what you need is to leave. You’re late.”

  “What?” Fadan’s head jerked to the candle clock on the wall to his left. Most of the candle had melted away, the flame now nearly at the base of the device. “Goddess damn it, Sabium! This is the most important council meeting since I’ve arrived!” He rose so sharply the chair rocked on its hind legs, nearly falling behind him before settling back into place.

  “An emperor should always arrive a little late,” Sabium said, his head now buried in the pages of his book. “It helps to remind his subjects of their place.”

  “Sure,” Fadan said, opening the study’s door. “Except I’m not the emperor.”

  Two bodyguards waited for him outside, and they rushed to pick up their weapons and stand at attention. “Good morning, Your Majesty!” one of the guards said. He was the most Candian person Fadan had ever met; pale blue eyes, milky white skin, freckle covered face, and curly red hair tucked underneath his helmet.

  “Is it?” Fadan asked. “I’ve been in these goddess damned caves so long I can no longer tell night from day.” He looked from one side of the gloomy corridor to the other, sparse oil lamps hanging on the damp stone walls. “Which way to the council chambers, again?”

  The red-headed soldier smiled. “This way, Your Majesty. We’ll take you there.”

  Nodding, Fadan followed the two soldiers. He had been living in the underground facility for six months now, ever since he had abandoned Augusta to save Doric, Sabium, and all the other rebel prisoners. These were ancient tunnels, carved many centuries ago—when dragons still ruled the world—by the people of Ragara as a safe haven. Now they served as home for the clandestine Academy of Mages, as well as acting as the Rebellion’s main base of operations.

  The soldiers led Fadan up narrow stairwells and through dark tunnels, and he wondered if he was ever going to be able to find his own way in this place. They finally arrived at a hall that, unlike most spaces in the Rebellion’s underground facility, was wide and spacious. It rose two stories high, a stairwell leading to a balcony overlooking the area. A great, gilded double door stood at the other end of the hall, its golden filaments gleaming in the light of a dozen oil lamps. Portraits of ancient Arch-Mages hanging on each side of the hall watched with stern gazes as the prince crossed the room.

  The gilded door was a work of art. The filigree covering its surface depicted low relief strands of fire that turned into water, then into stone, and then into smoke in a mesmerizing twirl. It was one of the Academy’s many symbols.

  The two bodyguards assumed a position flanking the door, and Fadan straightened his white jacket.

  “How do I look?” the prince asked.

  The guards hesitated.

  “Quite regal,” the red-headed one said.

  “Definitely,” the other one agreed.

  Concluding they were both horrible liars, Fadan pushed the gilded door open and strode through it.

  An even larger room opened on the other side. Three chandeliers hanging from the ceiling lit the space with dozens of candles. About a dozen people sat on one side of a long table, their backs to him as he entered, and they all stood up.

  “Majesty,” the councilors greeted, bowing slightly.

  “Councilors,” Fadan returned the courtesy, taking his seat. The others sat as well.

  On the other side of the table, instead of more chairs, was a line of beautiful, golden framed mirrors, each large enough to fit the entire reflection of a person.

  “Shall I begin the connection, Your Majesty?” Arc
h-Mage Persea asked, her elderly voice a stark contrast to the youth of her skin. The enchantments covering her were so strong Fadan felt every hair on his body prickle.

  “Please do, Arch-Mage.”

  With a wave of Persea’s arm, the blue Glowstone crystals encrusted on the frames of the mirrors began to shine. Slowly, the reflections on each of the mirrors began to ripple, like small pebbles thrown into a calm lake. One by one, the image of a different person appeared in the mirrors. They all dressed lavishly and sat on extravagant chairs in exquisitely decorated rooms: the highest-ranking nobles in the Rebellion, Lords and Ladies of some of the largest and richest regions of the empire.

  Clearing his throat, Viscount Ultimer spoke from his seat at the end of the table. “Masters of the Academy; my Lords, my Ladies; Imperial Majesty. The Council of this Rebellion is now gathered and in session.” He was a short, fat man with a hairline that receded halfway to the back of his head. A Viscount in name only, with no wealth to speak of, he had been serving as the council’s Secretary long before Fadan had arrived in Ragara’s secret, underground facility. “We have before us, today, a matter of the utmost importance. However, before we proceed, there is something that requires the council’s attention, a matter of great urgency.”

  “Urgency?” the Marquis of Silusa asked, only his lower lip visible beneath a great white moustache. He sat on an ebony chair whose sharp angles seemed to bite into his body. On the left breast of his blue vest gleamed the laurels of a brilliant, yet distant, military career. “Can’t this wait for our vote?”

  “I’m afraid not, my Lord,” Ultimer replied. He summoned a Page from a corner of the room and handed him a parchment. “This arrived a few hours ago.”