The Shadow Of Fallen Gods

by V. R. Cardoso

  “We hadn’t been together for a while. Ever since those kids…”

  “The magelings in your basement? What was that, eight years ago? Nine?”

  Hagon looked up at Doric. “The oldest was just twelve. The youngest couldn’t even pronounce ‘runium’ right. Do you know what the Paladins did to them?”

  Doric preferred not to think about it, so he just shook his head and made sure he didn’t.

  “Shayna blamed us both.” Hagon looked back down at his beer. “Just for being alive. Couldn’t even look at me. I still loved her, though.”

  Doric swallowed. What exactly did you say to something like that?

  Hagon smiled into his beer. “She was so flimsy when we first met. A couple of months into the Rebellion and she could disarm me faster than you could finish that beer.”

  Doric snorted. He remembered Shayna well. There hadn’t been a flimsy hair on her body ever. People just mistook her sweetness for fragility. He raised his mug. “To amazing women.”

  Grinning, Hagon brought his mug up and they toasted. “To amazing women,” he echoed.

  “And their horrible taste in men,” Doric added.

  Hagon laughed and they both took a long pull of their drinks.

  “I suppose we’re the lucky ones, right?” Hagon asked. “I mean, for a time at least, we were happy. We had it all.”

  Doric nodded. That was certainly true. He had so many good memories from those days it was almost too painful to just think about it. Cassia’s soft steps in their room in Fausta, the way she twirled when trying on a new dress, the warm sun on his face when they laid on the grass in front of their porch, her laughter at his silly jokes, Aric crying in his cradle just as he was falling asleep, Cassia pushing Doric off the bed because it was his turn…

  “Anyway,” Hagon said, placing his beer down. “I just… wanted to remember Shayna with someone who knew her before… you know.” He stood up. “Feel free to finish mine. I need to be sober. The Prince has me drilling the new infantry regiments.”

  “How’s that coming along?”

  Hagon shrugged. “Better than expected, worse than required. Take care, Doric.” He walked away. “And good luck with the mail.”

  “Hagon!” Doric called.

  Hagon stopped in the tavern’s threshold and looked back.

  “She still loved you. She just thought she didn’t deserve to be loved back anymore.”

  “I know,” Hagon said. “I know.”

  * * *

  “Your Majesty,” the guard called. When there was no reply, he insisted, “Sir?” Again, nothing. “Prince Fadan!”

  As if waking up, Fadan shuddered and turned to the guards following him.

  “We’re out of the base proper,” the guard informed him. “These old tunnels aren’t completely stable. It might be dangerous.”

  Fadan looked around. They stood in a narrow corridor lit only by a torch in one of the guards’ hands. Dripping water echoed from somewhere beyond the darkness, and the air around them felt heavy and damp. He’d been walking aimlessly for hours and, apparently, he’d led them a bit too far.

  “Where in the mother’s name are we?” Fadan asked.

  “Somewhere in the ancient city’s lower levels,” the guard holding the torch replied. He had a soft, almost feminine voice.

  “Oh… Do you know the way back? I got distracted.”

  “Sure thing, Your Majesty,” the red-headed guard said. “This way.”

  The guards started back the way they’d come.

  “No, wait!” Fadan said.

  The guards looked over their shoulders.

  “I’m tired of these tunnels. I need to breathe. Take me outside.”

  “Beg your pardon?” the red-headed guard asked, exchanging a glance with his colleague.

  “Outside. To the surface. Anywhere, as long as there is a sky above it. I feel like these caves are crushing me. I need to breathe.”

  “But… Your Majesty…” the guard with the soft voice mumbled in protest. “No one is supposed to go outside without proper authorization.”

  “I’m the goddess damned prince,” Fadan replied. “What more authorization do you need?”

  Once again, the guards exchanged a look.

  “I suppose we could go to the Duke’s palace,” the red-headed guard suggested, more to his colleague than to the prince. “It’s safe enough there.”

  “The palace is fine,” Fadan said, exasperated. “Just get me above the ground.”

  Hesitantly, the guards led the prince back through the dark tunnel, then up the dozens of levels of the Rebellion’s compound. Once at the exit chamber, the guards at the door complained that a proper authorization was needed, and once again Fadan reminded them of who he was, so the door was opened. More guards stood on the other side, and the Prince had to shout his way through, his flustered bodyguards fast on his heels. When they finally arrived at the great hall of Duke Nyssander, everything was quiet.

  Moonlight poured through a stained-glass window above the ducal thrones, covering the hall in a shade of twilight. Fadan took a deep breath. He wasn’t exactly outdoors, but after six months locked in those tunnels, it sure felt like it.

  “Maybe His Majesty would like to see the gardens?” the red-headed guard suggested.

  “You know what? That will be all for today,” Fadan replied. “You’re both relieved.”

  The guards waggled their jaws and mumbled something about their orders to never leave his side.

  “I’m the goddess damned prince!” Fadan told them. “Whatever orders you have, I’m overriding them.” He turned on his heels and strode to one of the hall’s many side doors, leaving the two bodyguards to exchange worried looks.

  Just as Fadan reached the door, the red-headed guard straightened up, his eyebrows jumping with a brilliant idea. “How will His Majesty find his way back to his room?” he asked quickly.

  Fadan halted. That was a good question. He still wasn’t able to navigate the labyrinth of tunnels of the rebel base himself. “Alright,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Wait here for me, then. I should be back in an hour or so. Just need to clear my head.”

  The guards nodded, and the prince opened the small side door. It didn’t take long for him to get lost once more. At least this time that was the whole point. He needed to think.

  Walking past a suit of armor, he made a mental note of seeing Lord Hagon about the new infantry regiments he was training. Those men would be the template for the army Fadan planned to raise as soon as he officially declared war on his father. His hopes for victory relied on volunteers offering to join his cause as soon as it became public. But even if they did, those volunteers, no matter how numerous, would be worthless without a well-planned training program that could turn regular farmers and fishermen into proper soldiers. How exactly he was going to arm these soldiers, the prince still didn’t know, but compared to some of his other problems, this one almost seemed easy.

  The palace felt almost abandoned. As he crisscrossed its hallways and staircases, Fadan did not run into a single person, servant or otherwise. For a moment, he was almost transported to his evenings exploring the Citadel with Aric.

  After what felt like the better part of an hour wandering the vast ducal residence, Fadan reached the top of a tower. There was a circular room there, shaped by the outer walls of the tower itself. It was empty except for a pair of chairs by two windows, long, thick curtains dancing in the wind between them. Fadan closed his eyes, basking in the cold air slashing across his face. How deeply one could miss something as simple as the wind. It felt so good that, at first, Fadan ignored the music in his ears, assuming his mind was playing tricks on him, overwhelmed with simple pleasure. Then, he realized there really was someone playing the lute somewhere.

  Following the sound, Fadan crossed a stone bridge leading to an adjacent tower, and the music grew clearer. He’d never heard it before, but the composition was clearly Arreline in style. It was also beautif
ul. Happy and yet sad, like the memory of a childhood summer one could never go back to.

  Carefully stepping into the new tower, as if afraid of scaring off a bird on the ground, Fadan found the source of the music. Someone sat on a chair on a balcony, legs up on the stone railing, playing the lute. The silhouette had long hair and broad shoulders and looked up into the night sky as if his fingers needed no direction in playing the song.

  “Doric?” Fadan asked, recognizing the man.

  The music stopped and Doric looked over his shoulder. “Majesty!”

  “Are you allowed outside the base?” Fadan asked, stepping onto the balcony.

  “Are you?”

  “Technically no, but who’s going to forbid me?” Fadan grabbed the railing and looked into the distance. “We shouldn’t even be hiding in the first place,” he muttered.

  The view before him was magnificent. A full moon hung in the sky, shining down on the whole city. Ragara was like a smaller, more civilized version of Augusta. The streets were clean, detailed mosaics paving the most important avenues. The port section was organized and in good repair. Even the poorest neighborhoods had neatly cobbled streets and colorful stone buildings. There was no mud or wooden shacks falling over each other. It was a densely packed city, confined within a thick stone wall, but it didn’t feel like it. The plazas were roomy and the avenues spacious. Even the narrow back alleys looked more charming than scary.

  “I’ve heard of the council’s decision,” Doric said, taking his feet off the railing. “Or lack thereof. Can’t say I blame them, to be honest.”

  Fadan turned to look at him. “Can I ask you a question? A personal one?”

  Doric nodded.

  “How did you and your father get along?”

  Doric grimaced. “That’s a tough one.” He placed his lute on the ground. “Some people say we walk in the shadow of the gods. I think we walk in the shadow of our fathers.” He took a deep breath. “It wasn’t easy living up to the mighty Faric Auron, but, then again, I never wanted to. It made me angry that people had those expectations of me, but not nearly as much as my failing them made Faric. So, for many years, our relationship was… strained. Then Intila’s father died and he came to live with us. He was never formally adopted because it would’ve raised problems with managing the different estates. My mother didn’t want me to lose my inheritance, and Intila was the heir of House Faura, so he wasn’t exactly destitute. My father simply brought him home one day and we all acted as if it was normal. After that…” he shrugged, “everyone got what they wanted. I got to write my poems and sing my songs, Intila got to have a military legend as his father despite his real one having died in the war. And, of course, my father got to have his little soldier son after all.” Smiling weakly, he leaned back in his chair. “Everyone was happy.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “Meaning we weren’t exactly close, but we tolerated each other’s company. Towards the end, at least.”

  “What about Intila?”

  “Oh, they got along great!”

  “No, no, I mean you and Intila.”

  Doric scoffed. “Ah, right. Well… as long as my father was in the same room, we would mostly refrain from insulting each other.”

  “Pity… I was hoping maybe you could help.” Fadan turned back to the city.

  “Help with what?”

  “Bringing Intila to our side,” he replied. “The council seems to believe that without him, we are doomed.”

  “Well, that one is easy,” Doric said, picking up his lute. “All you have to do is find your mother.”

  “My mother?” the prince asked.

  Doric gave him a nod.

  “What do you mean?”

  Grinning, Doric strummed the chords of his lute, a soft, tender melody coming from the instrument. “Come on, you’ve lived with Intila in the Citadel your entire life. You must have seen it. I mean, I know she’s your mother, but open your eyes, son. You think Tarsus and I were the only ones craving her attention?”

  Fadan stiffened, realization hitting him.

  “You want to know why I never felt less than Intila, no matter how my father treated us?” Doric asked, his fingers speeding up on the lute. “Because out of just about every man in Arkhemia, Cassia chose me.”

  * * *

  Fadan strode through the torch-lit tunnels, his two bodyguards struggling to keep up. As if he didn’t already have enough reasons to be looking for his mother, now she might actually be the key to defeating his father. But what more could he do? There were some indications Cassia was somewhere near the Phermian mountains, but even that wasn’t certain. Besides, he also needed resources to help Aric. Fadan made a mental note to see Ultimer about the rescue operation. He couldn’t allow the operation to fail. If Aric got to the Citadel…

  He shook his head. No, that wouldn’t happen. He’d make sure of it.

  Sighing, Fadan halted. It was so sudden his guards nearly bumped into him. He looked around. The hallway felt familiar. He turned and looked at the door to his left, recognizing it as the door to his chambers.

  “Will you look at that?” He turned to the bodyguards. “I found the way to my room by—”

  The glint of two blades slashed the air in front of him. The guards dropped their spears and grabbed their necks, blood gushing out between their fingers, screams trapped in their throats. As the men collapsed to the ground, a hooded figure jumped from the shadows holding the now bloody knives and lunged at Fadan. The door to the prince’s room flew open as they crashed into it, and Fadan fell on his back, the weight of the assassin crushing him. Kicking upwards, the prince sent the hooded man flying deeper into his room and scrambled back to his feet.

  He felt a jolt of pain in his gut and looked down. The handle of a knife was sticking out from his belly. Cold sweat ran down his spine, and his legs felt suddenly weak.

  At the other end of the room, the assassin had landed with one arm inside the burning fireplace. His sleeve caught fire, and he tried to put it out with the bare palm of his other hand.

  Fadan looked down at the knife once again, and he went dizzy.

  Oh, goddess… he thought desperately.

  Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the knife’s handle with both hands and pulled, yelping loudly. It hurt so much, tears flooded his eyes. The wound gushed with red, covering his hands and spattering over the floor.

  So much blood…

  A scream brought Fadan’s attention back to the assassin in his room. Arm smoking, the man charged once more, wielding his second blade. Fadan’s weapons training kicked in and he feinted right, then swung left, avoiding the knife. With a quick tap of his powers, he searched for a runium reserve within himself. He had drunk some at the beginning of Sabium’s class earlier that day, before falling asleep. Luckily, it seemed his system had not digested it all. Fadan ignited the potion, felt its power coursing through his body, a tingling sensation in his fingers, and summoned a fireball.

  Between Fadan’s curled fingers, sparks fizzled, but no fire came to life.

  No! Fadan thought, eyes widening with panic. He looked at the hooded figure. On the man’s chest, a blue light pulsed brightly enough to be seen beneath his dark robes, and he grinned savagely.

  A Syphon. Whoever this man was, he had come prepared to fight a mage.

  Fadan backed away, holding the knife he’d pulled from his own gut in front of him. He bumped into his desk and, with his free hand, started feeling along the tabletop, looking for anything he could use. His fingers found parchment rolls, a book, even a half-eaten slice of bread.

  The assassin charged once more, knife swinging fast to conceal where the attack would come from. Fadan’s heart raced, and it felt like a heavy weight was crushing his chest.

  His fingers brushed against something hard and cold and he wrapped his hand around it. An inkwell. Fadan threw the ink on the man’s face, covering it in a swath of dark blue.

  The man covered his eyes, screaming and skidding
to halt. Fadan took his chance. Screaming his lungs out, he stepped forward and stabbed the man’s chest, then his throat. Panting heavily, Fadan stepped back and watched as the assassin collapsed to the floor.

  Tears ran down Fadan’s face and he quivered. The pain in his abdomen became suddenly unbearable and he doubled over, falling to his knees.

  He was going to die. Right here, in these goddess forsaken caves.

  Swallowing a sob, Fadan looked at the man who had come to take his life. The assassin’s eyes were staring blankly at the growing pool of his own blood.

  That damn Syphon… Fadan thought. But, then again, he didn’t even know any spell that could heal him.

  Fadan shuffled forward, his knees scraping along the stone floor. He reached into the dead man’s robe, pulled the Syphon, and threw it into the fire. The blue crystal glowed momentarily on top of a burning log, then cracked, splintering into a dozen pieces. Its light vanished.

  Help, Fadan thought, slumping onto his side. He was getting cold, his eyelids suddenly very heavy. Please help!

  The air around him crackled, sparks flying everywhere. A deep rumble filled the room, like a herd of bison stampeding towards him. A gust of wind blew from the door, as if someone had opened a window in a storm, and…

  BOOM!

  Arch-Mage Persea materialized next to him, wrapped in a blue blaze. Her eyes shone like stars on a clear night. The air around her rippled in waves, magical power so raw Fadan could almost touch it. She studied the scene for a brief instant, then knelt next to him, placing a hand on the wound and another on his face.

  “It’s alright,” she whispered.

  The pain subsided, and his sight became murky. As Fadan fought the heaviness of his eyelids, he barely registered the cascade of booms as mage after mage teleported into the room, walls and furniture exploding to make way for their arrival.

  “Everything will be alright.”

  3

  Broken Memories

  Night had fallen hours ago, the streets now laying dormant and empty, the occasional dog barking in the distance. Engadi wasn’t a gigantic metropolis like Saggad, Victory, or Augusta, but its center felt just as packed. The city’s ancient streets were crammed between three-story buildings that seemed to lean on each other as if about to tumble. Most were in rough shape, centuries of makeshift repairs adorning their façades like ragdolls made from patches of cement, brick, and wood planks. The only exceptions were the impeccably kept temples that popped up everywhere, their sharp pyramids gleaming beneath the moonlight. Engadi wasn’t called the sacred city for nothing.