The Shadow Of Fallen Gods

by V. R. Cardoso

  * * *

  “And thus, did Dagmar the Wise, in the pinnacle of his grief, sacrifice himself to save humanity from Fyr’s ultimate weapon.” Mansakir emptied the ash of his pipe into a bucket and refilled it with fresh tobacco. “It is said that to this day, Kallax wanders the vast, frozen wastelands of the underworld, desperately looking for his cup and the man who played him for a fool.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “You’re kidding me,” Eliran said. “Are you telling me the Circle has found a way to revive their dead?”

  “No. I’m telling you that this,” he returned Eliran’s drawing, “is the Threshold Chalice. Also known as the Cup of Kallax.”

  “So, you don’t know what it does.”

  “I’m pretty sure I do.”

  “Which is…?”

  Mansakir puffed on his pipe until a cloud hung before his face. “It brings people back from the dead.”

  “You’re kidding… It’s just a legend. A myth. It’s not supposed to be taken literally.”

  “Correct.”

  “Then the cup might not actually be able to bring people from the dead?” Eliran pushed.

  “It might not,” Mansakir agreed. “But it does.”

  Eliran had to restrain herself from punching the old man in the face. “You do realize you’re being rather ambiguous, right now. Which isn’t very helpful.”

  “I’m not being ambiguous at all. You wanted an expert’s opinion. You have it.”

  “But… it can’t be. It’s not possible.”

  “It is possible, and I am being helpful.” He leaned forward. “Listen to me, child. I do not envy your job, and I certainly wouldn’t want to be the one performing it, but I wouldn’t be making it any easier for you if I lied. The Circle found the Threshold Chalice. I’ll be damned if I know how, but they did. And by your own account, the memory you stole even proves they’ve tested it. Now they’re going to do something with it. Exactly what, I cannot know, but I suggest you move. Quick.”

  * * *

  “Wake up!”

  Tarek jumped from his chair like a startled cat, sword quick in his hand. “W-what?”

  “Where’s your hypervisor?” Eliran asked.

  The station manager looked around, his sleep addled brain trying to make sense of things. “How did you get in here? The door was locked.”

  “Yes, because that will keep a mage out. Where’s your hypervisor?”

  “The what?”

  Eliran rolled her eyes. “The big, magic mirror.”

  “Oh, in the storeroom. Downstairs.”

  “Show me.”

  Tarek nodded sleepily, sheathed his sword, and led the way. The Radirian safe house was a large, underground complex that had once been the wine cellar of some now defunct noble house. They went through a narrow stairwell, thick cobwebs amassed between the wall and the iron mounts where torches lit the way. A large collection of disparate pieces of furniture occupied most of the storeroom. The hypervisor stood at a corner, covered by a rotting linen sheet that billowed a cloud of dust into the air when Tarek pulled it off.

  “Get out,” Eliran said as she recharged the spells in the artifact’s Glowstone crystals.

  Tarek complied silently, probably happy to be allowed to return to his sleep. Persea’s image came into focus just as the door to the storeroom closed behind him.

  “By the look on your face, I’d say the news isn’t great,” the Arch-Mage said.

  “Not in the least,” Eliran replied. “This is Sohtyr all over again. Ever heard of the Threshold Chalice?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s what Astoreth has found, and apparently, she knows how to use it.”

  Arch-Mage Persea stood quiet for so long Eliran began to doubt the hypervisor was functioning properly.

  “Mansakir is sure of this?” she asked at last, but didn’t even wait for a reply. “It certainly explains why she’d kill herself.”

  “She was probably testing the artifact,” Eliran suggested. They’d always known human sacrifices were a part of the Circle’s vile religious rituals, but a Head-Archon taking her own life made very little sense. Until now, at least.

  Persea shook her head, her eyes lost in thought. “No. She wouldn’t risk her own life. They already knew the artifact worked when Astoreth killed herself, so why did she?”

  “Maybe she was just curious what the underworld looked like.” Eliran shrugged. “I know I would be.”

  “No… there’s something we’re missing, but it doesn’t matter now. Every single one of those bastards we’ve killed over the years might already be back on their stinking feet. Or are about to be, if we’re lucky. We must recover the cup. Now.” Persea waved an arm and a map of Arkhemia floated to her, dozens of stone miniatures dotting the landscape. “It’ll be well protected. Maybe even more so now that they know you saw it.”

  The implications were left unsaid, but Eliran understood them well enough. She wouldn’t be able to do this on her own. She would no doubt be outnumbered and outclassed.

  “I can have…” Persea studied her map, “Ursula, Ebomir, and Olaya down there in a week. Maybe even Freyda if I can reach her fast enough.”

  “Mistress, we don’t have a week.”

  Persea ground her teeth. “It’s our only option.”

  “No,” Eliran said. “There’s another one.”

  “I forbid it!” The Arch-Mage’s voice echoed in the storeroom, which was remarkable considering it was packed full of old furniture.

  “Mistress, in a week they may have raised an entire army. Generations worth of those goddess forsaken creatures. I have to try. At the very least I might be able to delay them. Give Ursula and the others time to get here.”

  Persea took a deep breath and her features relaxed. “Very well,” she said after a moment. “But at the very least take a detachment of soldiers from Radir. The station manager should be able to find some on a quick notice.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be very helpful,” Eliran said, managing to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. It wouldn’t have helped in the present situation.

  Persea nodded. “Also, ask him for Glowstone. The Radirian cell will have a cache hidden somewhere. You can arm the soldiers with it.” She nodded encouragingly. “With the right spells, who knows. The soldiers might actually be of some use.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea, but even with Eliran’s best combat spells stored in the Glowstone weapons, it would take the very best of soldiers to put up a fight against a group of well-trained Archons. Somehow, she doubted she would find any in this goddess forsaken corner of the empire.

  “Good luck,” Persea said.

  Eliran wished it didn’t sound so like a goodbye. “You know me,” she said. “I always have it.” She waved a hand and Persea’s image faded away, the hypervisor becoming just a mirror once more.

  Back upstairs, Tarek was asleep once more. He had his feet over a table drowning in incomplete ledgers.

  “Wake up! We’ve got work to do.”

  Tarek had the decency to scramble to his feet. “Yes, ma’am,” he managed to say.

  “I need soldiers,” Eliran told him gravely. “This is serious.”

  “Soldiers?” The man was suddenly wide awake. “You mean we have an operation?”

  “Yes,” Eliran replied. “I’m afraid it’s the kind people don’t come back from.” She took a step forward. “Tarek, this is important. The council of Arch-Mages doesn’t send people like me unless the situation is dire, but I’m afraid what I found in those caves is much worse than what we imagined. I’m going to need the very best soldiers you can find. Do you understand?”

  Tarek nodded and Eliran was happy to see determination in his eyes. “What are we talking about? Storming a fortified position?”

  “Storming a bunch of mages,” Eliran replied. “Nasty ones.”

  “Mages? What good will regular soldiers do against mages?” It wasn’t a prot
est, just a tactical observation, and once again Eliran was happy to see the man was actually going to work.

  “We’ve thought about that. We’ll need your Glowstone cache. We can fashion weapons from the crystals and I’ll infuse them with protective and offensive spells. With the right preparations, and if your soldiers can keep their cool in a really messy situation, we can pull this off.”

  Tarek chuckled. “Fire take me and my mother. The goddess does provide.”

  Eliran frowned “What?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, but I think I got just what you need. Follow me.” Tarek took off through one of the back corridors, shaking his head in utter disbelief. “They arrived just this morning, saying they wanted to join up. I met them just after I left you at the cave entrance.” He stopped at a door, knocked, then opened it. Inside, a small crowd turned to face the opening door and Eliran’s jaw dropped.

  “Hunter?” she asked.

  There, sitting among the group, was the dragon hunter she’d met over a year ago. The one who had helped her stop Sohtyr and his plan to revive the dragon goddess Fyr. His whole company was scattered across the room, some doing pushups, some playing cards. Two of them were rolling over the floor, punching each other.

  Aric smiled back at her. “Eliran!”

  8

  The Wars We Do Not Fight

  The Rebellion’s underground complex did not possess a market in the true sense of the word. Instead, there were all kinds of stores scattered throughout the compound, each selling a different assortment of goods. There was no apparent logic to it. At least none that Doric could understand. One store on the third level sold everything from fruit to woven baskets, to iron pots, while another on the fifth level sold nothing except firewood. It was completely ridiculous and certainly infuriating when one was looking for a specific item.

  Doric had spent the better half of the morning climbing up and down the stairwells of the compound, making his way now to the tenth store of his trek. It was located at the very top of the complex, and Doric would not have tried it unless he had no other choice. Up there, where the air smelled clean, the temperature was mild, and the tunnels were wide and tall, was where the nobility taking refuge in the Rebellion’s headquarters lived.

  The store’s arched double doorway was wide open. Above it, painted on the stone in bright blue letters, was an inscription that read Tycho’s Emporium. You knew you were surrounded by pretentious people when even shopkeepers called their establishments ‘emporiums’.

  Rows of shelves and racks were neatly arrayed across the large room, creating parallel corridors draped with colorful clothes and tapestries, dotted with assortments of jewelry and scented oils. Doric navigated the store, looking left and right for what he needed, making sure he kept his head low every time he crossed another patron browsing the wares. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, Doric headed to the front counter.

  A reedy man dressed in the finest silks greeted him across the counter with a curt bow. “How may I help you, my Lord?” he asked beneath a moustache as thin as a fishing line.

  “I’m looking for sandalwood incense,” Doric said. “Do you have any?”

  “I’ll have to check,” the shopkeeper replied. “We carry the finest incenses in all of Thepia, but we’ve recently run out of sandalwood. I’ll see if a new batch has arrived.” He turned and disappeared through a narrow door behind the counter. After a moment, he returned carrying a small wooden box.

  Doric almost sighed out loud, his shoulders broadening with relief.

  “You’re in luck,” the shopkeeper said, placing the little box on top of the counter. “These seem to have arrived just this morning.”

  Doric smiled and reached for the box. “Fantastic!”

  “That’ll be a Silver Talent.”

  “Oh…” Doric’s hand froze halfway to the incense package. “Well, actually, I don’t need a whole box. Two sticks will be enough.”

  The shopkeeper looked at Doric as if he’d just chewed on a piece of spoiled meat. “We only sell them by the box.” He scanned Doric from head to feet, the bridge of his nose wrinkling as he seemed to only now notice his raggedy clothes. “My Lord…”

  “I see,” Doric fumbled. This shop was his last chance. He’d checked every other possibility in the compound. Where else was he going to get sandalwood incense?

  “What’s the matter? Run out of the Prince’s stipend already? We’re not even halfway through the month.”

  Doric turned to face the source of the voice, meeting the smug gaze of Thurvald Kaxar. His House had been utterly destroyed by the Emperor even before the Purge, so he wasn’t just one of the oldest members of the Rebellion, he was one of its founders. He was also one of the many reasons Doric only ever visited the top level unless he really needed to.

  “Thurvald,” Doric greeted him dryly.

  “Don’t tell me,” Thurvald mused, stepping next to Doric and leaning on the counter with a grin. “Spent it all on wine?”

  Doric grinned back tightly. “Good one, Thurvald. I’d never heard that one before. You remain as witty as ever.”

  “Here’s an idea, why don’t you enlist in the Prince’s regiments? I heard those soldiers make a good wage.”

  Doric looked at the shopkeeper. “Thank you for your time,” he said, then turned around and stepped away.

  “No, of course not,” Thurvald continued at his back. “Too much of a coward to pick up a sword.” When Doric didn’t react, he added, “Take care, Doric.”

  “Doric?” the shopkeeper echoed. “Doric Auron? As in the son of Faric Auron?”

  Doric stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Yes, yes, he was a great hero, I’m not. Anything else you’d like to add?”

  Thurvald chortled.

  “If I’m not mistaken, the Aurons stem from Fausta, where sandalwood is considered sacred,” the shopkeeper said flatly.

  “That’s correct,” Doric agreed.

  Slowly, the shopkeeper opened the lid of the incense box, removed two sticks, and extended them towards Doric. “Compliments of the house.”

  Hesitantly, Doric reached for the incense and took them from the shopkeeper’s hand, who quietly returned them behind his back. “Thanks.” Doric gave the man a nod and turned again to leave.

  For a moment, Doric feared Thurvald was going to follow him and continue harassing him down the corridors. Luckily, Thurvald did no such thing.

  Doric found the closest stairwell, happy to be leaving the first level behind. He continued his descent until he was deep within the bowls of the underground city, and then followed through a narrow, dark tunnel flanked by two streams of fresh water. The sound of the streams followed him as he turned into another, even narrower tunnel lined with doors on both sides. Drawing an iron key from his pocket, he unlocked one of the doors and was greeted by the fading light of a nearly spent oil lamp.

  This was his room, his little corner within the Rebellion’s compound. It was a cubicle barely larger than the single bed where he slept. There was a wooden chest by the foot of the bed, and a plain brown carpet covering the floor beside it. As far as decoration went, that was it—not that Doric minded. He might have been born a noble but had long stopped caring about material possessions.

  He opened the chest. Inside was a bundle of ragged clothes. Doric rummaged between the shirts and pants until he finally found what he was looking for: a sword. It was a thing of beauty—silver guard shaped like flames, the roaring head of a lion as its pommel, red rubies encrusted in the beast’s eyes. Doric ran his fingers along the black sheath of the weapon, then shouldered it by its leather strap, closed the chest, and left his room, locking the door behind himself. He started walking down the residential hallway but quickly halted, intrigued. Instead of the familiar sound of running water from the nearby corridor, he heard a shriek.

  No, not a shriek, a wail. Someone was crying.

  Doric turned in a circle, trying to isolate the sound from its echoes,
and it didn’t take him long to trace the crying to an ancillary corridor within the residential section. As he turned a corner, he almost stumbled on its source—a child no older than five. He was sitting on the ground, curled into a ball, his little body shaking as he sobbed.

  “Hey there,” Doric said gently, kneeling beside the small form.

  The boy peeked suspiciously over his arms, sniffing, but didn’t say anything.

  “You lost?” Doric asked.

  The kid’s teary blue eyes remained locked on Doric, but, once again, he did not reply.

  “I get lost in these tunnels all the time. They all just seem alike, don’t they?”

  Seeming to ignore Doric’s question, the boy glanced at the sword at his back.

  “You like it?” Doric asked, shrugging the weapon from his shoulder.

  The boy nodded hesitantly.

  “It was my father’s,” Doric added, turning the sword in his hand.

  “Did he give it to you?” the boy asked, wiping a trickle of snot with the back of his hand.

  Doric chuckled. “Not really, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, that’s a long story.”

  “Can I hold it?”

  Doric smiled. “You’re a bit young to be wielding a real sword, aren’t you?”

  “My dad won’t let me train with a wooden one, either.”

  “Is that why you were crying?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Why then?”

  The boy stiffened, his face darkening. He stared at Doric for a moment, then said flatly, “Just miss my mum.”

  “I see. Well, I’m sure she misses you, too, wherever she is.”

  The kid looked at his feet. “The Priestess said she can still see me from up above,” he muttered, then looked up. “But I don’t think that’s true. Not while I’m down here.”

  “You sure?” Doric asked. “I mean, I don’t know your mum, but… you think a few caves would get in her way if she wants to see you?”