The Shadow Of Fallen Gods

by V. R. Cardoso

  How many attackers were there? Was she surrounded?

  Low branches slapped her arms and face as she raced between the trees. A third bolt hit her shield and she felt it shiver, about to collapse around her. She tried to focus on the protective spell to reinforce it. Not an easy task when one was running for their life, trying not to slam into a tree in the dark.

  She steadied her breathing, splitting her mind in two. One half focused on escaping, another on channeling her magic. She searched for more power to feed her shield, but a quick probe told her there was barely any runium left in her system. She reached for her belt, feeling for the spare runium flasks she usually carried. Instead of the familiar bulgy shape of the flasks, her fingers ran over shards of glass, slicing into her fingertip. Cursing, Eliran sucked on the bleeding wound. The vials must have shattered when she had fallen off the cart.

  Her foot caught something and she fell face first on the ground, a green bolt flying by, missing her head by an inch. Eliran looked up and saw a smoking hole carved into a tree, then glanced back at what had made her trip. Odamin’s body was splayed in the mud, rain collecting in his open mouth, vacant eyes staring at the sky.

  “Goddess damn it!”

  She wanted to turn and fight, but she knew how stupid that would be. Facing archons without runium would be like trying to kill a dragon with a spoon. She had one potent spell left in her, maybe two.

  Footsteps echoed from several different directions. Eliran calculated there were at least three attackers, probably four, all of whom were closing in fast.

  She cursed and levered herself to her feet, a layer of dark mud caking the front of her soaked tunic. With trembling fingers, she wiped away the thick strands of hair clinging to her face like leeches, pulling them behind her ears. She was freezing, yet another sign she really was running out of runium. The potion always made her feel warm.

  A flash of light flooded the forest, followed by a roll of thunder. Eliran couldn’t be sure, but she would have sworn she had seen the shapes of her attackers in the flash of light, like a pack of wolves surrounding their prey.

  You haven’t caught me yet, she thought, gritting her teeth so they’d stop chattering.

  Eliran closed her eyes, opened her arms, and faced up. Cold, heavy raindrops splashed over her face. She focused on them, channeling what little magic she still had delicately. She visualized the rain pouring over the forest like strings connecting the world to the clouds above. Feeling the magic seeping through her fingertips, Eliran ran through the incantation in her mind, whispering the mnemonic that helped her remember it.

  At first, the drops of rain seemed to grow fatter, then, the shower became slower and slower, turning into a light drizzle before fading completely. The familiar, warm tingling in her fingers stopped, her runium finally spent. She lowered her arms and reopened her eyes.

  A thick, gray blanket of mist covered the world. Eliran could barely see the tree right next to her or Odamin’s body at her feet. She realized her attacker’s footsteps had stopped and heard a series of curses.

  Eliran smiled.

  Try and catch me now, you bastards!

  * * *

  Eliran’s teeth had been rattling together for so long she was sure they would shatter at any moment. She tugged at the thick blanket, wrapping herself tighter. In a corner, Aldric struck a flint twice and blew on a handful of tinder until it started smoking. He was an elephant of a man. As large as most wardrobes and with a round belly that made it look like he was hiding a large pumpkin beneath his apron. He was obviously unfit for combat, so the rebellion had made him a station manager. Apparently, he was quite good at the job.

  Eliran had been in dozens of safe houses across the whole empire. This one was, by far, the tidiest and best supplied. The firewood was plentiful, there wasn’t a single cobweb in sight, and every room smelled earthy and dry, with not a single mold stain blotching the walls. Considering this was a basement in a city claimed from a swamp, it was rather impressive.

  “There you go,” the man said, pushing the nest of tinder under a pile of firewood.

  Eliran saw the first slivers of flame, the mere anticipation of the fire seeming to calm her shivers a little.

  “Anything else I can do, my lady?” Aldric asked, pushing on his ham sized thighs to help heave himself up. “Maybe something to eat?”

  Eliran shook her head. “Just the runium, thank you.”

  Aldric gave her a look that said he didn’t think that was a good idea but refrained from saying such out loud. Instead, he just said, “Yes, my lady,” and started towards the door.

  Having arrived in Engadi only a couple nights ago, Eliran didn’t know much about the man, but she did know why he had joined the “cause”, as he called it: Guilt. It was a story like many others. In the aftermath of the Purge, he and his wife had taken pity on a group of fugitive child mages and hidden them in their home. The Paladins had tracked the children to Aldric’s neighborhood, and in the face of an imminent search, he had surrendered them.

  In the rebellion, there was no shortage of stories like this. Eliran had trouble remembering the faces and names of all the agents she had worked with throughout the years, but never their stories. There were children who had lost their parents, parents who had lost their children, and many other variations of the subject. The rebellion was a patchwork sewn together by loss.

  The child mages Aldric had harbored had lost their lives, but something very similar happened to him that night he’d handed them to the Paladins. His marriage had collapsed shortly after. The man became a loner, hardly capable of leaving his own home.

  That was, at least, until the rebellion had given him purpose once again. Now, he dedicated himself to taking care of people like Eliran, feeding on the hope that their work could somehow avenge those poor kids.

  “Aldric.”

  The station manager stopped, his massive body halfway out the door.

  “You’re right. I should eat something.”

  Aldric smiled. “I have some stew in the kitchen. I’ll heat it up for you.”

  He disappeared out the door and Eliran waited, staring at the hypervisor in front of her. It was a simple, old thing. Its thin, bronze frame was rusty, making the Glowstone gems pop out even more than usual. The mirror had three long cracks shaped like a slanted Y, making Eliran’s reflection look like a puzzle whose pieces didn’t fit together quite right.

  Aldric returned, a small flask in his hand. “The runium, my lady.”

  “Thank you,” Eliran said, the sight of the potion making her sit up straighter. “And please, just Eliran.”

  Aldric nodded and a set of glistening teeth appeared beneath his thick, dark beard. Eliran assumed he was giving her a smile.

  “Close the door, and please knock when you return,” Eliran told him as he turned to leave.

  “Yes m— Eliran.”

  Once alone, Eliran downed the runium in a single gulp, savoring the intense dizziness that always followed a generous dose of the concoction. She saw her blurred reflection breathe out a blue puff and sank in her chair as the cold that had been gripping her abandoned her body completely.

  Her arms flew open, tossing aside the blanket, and she got up with a hop. The spells in the hypervisor’s Glowstone were active and well charged. Eliran could feel them hum, like a tingling at the back of her awareness. She activated the magical artifact, summoning Persea.

  In the mirror, Eliran’s reflection disappeared, replaced by a gray slab, rippling like a pond under a soft rain. Persea’s likeness came into view, first blurry and unshapely, then as sharp as if she was standing right there.

  “Eliran, this is a surprise,” the Arch-Mage said.

  “Mistress.”

  “Your report is three weeks late. I didn’t expect to hear back from you for another three.”

  “You’re the one who keeps complaining everyone insists on wasting your time,” Eliran said.

  Persea frowned out at her. “Not eve
ryone is charged with a mission as important as yours! I must be kept appraised.”

  “It’s simple, Mistress. If I don’t get in touch, it means I have no progress to report.”

  “And how am I supposed to know you’re not… That you’re okay?”

  “Oh, now you’re worried?” Eliran crossed her arms.

  “I always worry, Eliran. I worry about all of you. You’re my students.”

  “We’re your assassins, Mistress,” Eliran muttered. “It’s not the same. Now, I have news. You want to hear it or not?”

  Persea exhaled loudly, letting the issue go. “Of course.”

  “I have found the Circle’s runium supplier.”

  In the hypervisor, Persea’s eyebrows jumped. “That’s incredible!”

  “That was my initial reaction, yes. Except… instead of a runium shipment, I intercepted a sacred relic…”

  “A real one or a forgery?”

  “Oh, it was real, alright.”

  “Eliran, you were by far the worst archaeology student in your class. How can you be sure?”

  “There was this one little detail about it. The four archons who tried to kill me the moment I looked at it.”

  That got Persea’s interest. “I see… You brought it with you?”

  “Did I mention the four archons trying to kill me? Of course I didn’t bring it with me!” Eliran exploded. She paused to collect herself. “I did place a tracker in the artifact’s crate.”

  Persea crossed her arms, clearly not very impressed. “That’s something, I suppose. What was it?”

  “A goblet. Fyrian design. Quite similar to the dagger, actually.” She motioned towards the magical dagger on her belt. “Other than that, I have no idea. I was hoping you could help. I can describe it to you in further detail.”

  “It would take too much time,” Persea said. “Can you draw it?”

  Eliran nodded.

  “Good. Do it now. Memory is a fickle thing. I want you to go to Radir. Find the local rebellion cell and tell them to take you to Arch-Mage Mansakir. He’s our foremost expert in Pre-Magical age history.”

  Eliran frowned. “That will take me days, mistress.”

  “And doing your research for you would take me hours.”

  Eliran closed her eyes and balled her fists, her knuckles whitening. “Yes, mistress,” she managed to say.

  “Is that all?” Persea asked, finality in her voice.

  “Yes,” Eliran replied. “No, actually…”

  “Eliran I do not have all day.”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Eliran took a deep breath. This was important. “It’s the goblet. I… it looked familiar somehow, but I’m completely certain I’ve never seen it.”

  “Familiar? How?”

  “As if…” Eliran thought about it. “As if I had used it once. Which I never did, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” Persea said. “Not you, at least.”

  At first, Eliran assumed her mistress was mocking her, but when she looked at Persea, her face was serious. Her meaning hit her immediately.

  “You mean the dagger,” Eliran said.

  The Arch-Mage nodded. “Makes sense. After all, you’re carrying the memories of two different people.”

  Eliran reached for the dagger, her stomach twisting immediately. She placed it on top a table and carefully unwrapped the thick leather strap that kept her from accidentally touching the artifact’s purple metal. Once all the wrappings were removed, the beautiful weapon stood there, gleaming tauntingly, as if daring her to touch it.

  “Goddess, I hate this!”

  “I’m right here, Eliran,” Persea said through the hypervisor.

  “Actually, you’re on the other side of the world.”

  “I know…”

  There was a moment of silence and they exchanged a look. Was that concern Eliran saw?

  She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and grabbed the purple handle. The shock was instantaneous, like embers eating away at her entrails.

  The world went bright, explosions flashing all around.

  She was in a great hall, a gigantic statue of a dragon staring down at her. A hooded figure threatening her.

  Explosions flashed once again.

  She was in a dark chamber, meditating, the walls draped with half-burnt candles. A corpse laying on the ground in front of her.

  More explosions filled her vision.

  She was in a temple, before an altar, a small army of acolytes before her, each holding a dagger. She had the goblet in her hand, its purple hue almost blinding. She drank from it, tasted iron. She said something in a language she did not recognize. At once, the file of acolytes stabbed themselves in the chest, collapsing on the floor. She looked down, the magical dagger was in her hand. She whispered a prayer and…

  She stabbed herself.

  Eliran dropped the dagger, returning to the basement and falling to the ground. She took a deep breath, fighting for air as if she had been about to drown.

  “Eliran!” Persea yelled. “Eliran, are you alright?”

  The door burst open and a wide eyed Aldric searched the room for some mysterious attacker. Eliran raised a hand. “I’m alright,” she said, panting. “It’s okay.”

  “What happened?” the man asked.

  “I’m fine,” Eliran said, standing back up. “Please, leave us, Aldric.”

  Aldric sent Persea a suspicious look, but obeyed, closing the door behind him. Eliran spun, facing the hypervisor.

  “What is it?” Persea asked anxiously. “What did you see?”

  “Mistress…” Eliran mumbled, her eyes vacant, dumbfounded. “Astoreth killed herself.”

  4

  What Seeps Through the Cracks

  It had been nearly a year since the last time Phaedra had set foot in the Rebellion’s underground base in Ragara. Her assignments usually lasted several months, but this last one had been abnormally long. It was strange, but Phaedra had to admit she actually missed the place.

  She leaned back on the bench, crossing her arms and letting out a bored sigh. Two mages flanked the wooden door, a torch burning in an iron sconce next to each of them. Since when had Persea needed guards outside her study? And why had she moved her study to the fifteenth level? Wasn’t this where the infirmary was?

  Waiting to be called into Persea’s study was nearly a time-honored tradition. Sometimes it felt like Phaedra had spent most of her life doing just that. However, she had just returned from hunting down a couple of particularly elusive Archons on the marshes east of Belleragar. In fact, she could still smell the rotten, sulfurous stench of those murky swamps on her purple tunic. Making her wait under these circumstances was too much, even by Persea’s standards.

  The door creaked open and a third mage stepped through, his bald head gleaming under the torch light. “The mistress will see you now,” he announced.

  Exhaling loudly, Phaedra stood up and followed the bald man. Her muscles still ached from the long journey, and she felt her mind drifting from sleep deprivation. It was a very familiar combination of sensations.

  Beyond the door, a corridor stretched endlessly, feeding into dozens of other doors and corridors. It was absolutely quiet, and a sharp tang of disinfecting agents filled the air. This was the infirmary. Had something happened to the old woman? Somehow, that didn’t seem possible. Despite her age, Persea never got sick. One of the many feats of her prodigious powers.

  The bald mage halted at a wide double door and knocked. Above the door, a wooden tablet read: Recovery Room – 1

  Phaedra felt a sense of uneasiness wash through her. Something had happened to the Arch-Mage…

  “Come,” a voice said from beyond the door.

  The bald mage opened the door and waved Phaedra inside. With an uncertain glance at the man, Phaedra walked in.

  It was a large room, lit by several candles and oil lamps spread across tables and shelves. A young man, probably about Phaedra’s age, was laying on a bed. He had pitch black hair an
d a handsome face. White bandages wrapped around his abdomen, leaving his chest bare. He stared at Phaedra through tired, swollen eyes, thick, dark circles ringing them. Persea was there as well, but she was clearly not the one recovering. She sat at a desk next to the bed, drowning in parchment rolls, as usual. It was as if she had teleported her study to this room, which, come to think of it, was probably exactly what she had done.

  “Phaedra,” the Arch-Mage greeted as she stood, her long braid tumbling from her shoulder, “welcome back.”

  “Thank you, mistress,” Phaedra replied. “It’s good to be back.”

  “I would like you to meet his Imperial Majesty, Prince Fadan Patros.” Persea extended an arm toward the young man on the bed.

  Phaedra looked at him, eyebrows jumping on her forehead. Really? she thought. Then she remembered her manners and bowed slightly. “An honor to meet you, Your Majesty.”

  “Forgive me for not standing up,” the Prince said, his voice coarse. “I seem to have been mortally wounded.”

  “I have not brought you here to be debriefed on your last assignment,” Persea explained. “I already know you have been quite successful. Congratulations.” She stepped from behind her desk. “Precisely one night ago, the Prince was the victim of an assassination attempt. He is no longer in any danger, but would’ve most certainly died had we not arrived in time.” She walked slowly to stand at the Prince’s side. “Great-Enchantress Clotilda and her healers spent twenty-two hours straight working on his Majesty. A few of the junior healers actually collapsed towards the end of the procedure, but everything is fine, now.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Phaedra told the Prince.

  “There’s little to be glad about, I’m afraid,” the Arch-Mage noted. “An assassin infiltrated our headquarters and nearly killed the leader of this Rebellion. As far as we know, another such attack can occur at any time.”

  “I wouldn’t go as far as saying I’m the leader of the Rebellion,” Prince Fadan croaked. “Not yet, at least.”

  “I see…” Phaedra muttered.