The Shadow Of Fallen Gods

by V. R. Cardoso

  Do it, Fadan ordered.

  I’ll need to get to the top of the main tower. I won’t be able to help you with—

  “I’ll be fine,” Fadan said. He gave her an encouraging nod. “Go.”

  “Okay…” Phaedra said, hesitantly. “Good luck.”

  The prince managed to produce a wan smile. “You, too.”

  Phaedra took off, heading for the stairs, and Fadan was left with his soldiers. A long line of archers stretched off both his flanks, their arrows peeking over the battlements. Behind the archers, regular infantrymen stood at ease, their oblong shields resting on the ground before them. They numbered in the thousands—around eight thousand, to be more precise—and yet they seemed so few in comparison to Intila’s assault.

  And this was just the first wave.

  “Release!” the captain commanded.

  The order was echoed by a string of sergeants down the line.

  “Release!”

  “Release!”

  A swarm of whistling arrows shot through the air. Down below, the enemy Legionaries stopped, knelt, and brought their shields over their heads as one. Fadan saw the arrows hit their targets, clattering against the shields like soft rain on a hard boulder. The enemy troops stood back up once the barrage had ended, resuming their march. If a single one of them had been hit, Fadan did not notice it.

  “Pull!” the captain commanded.

  The line of archers nocked new arrows onto their bows.

  “Fire at will!”

  As the archers rained their arrows down on the enemy, Fadan drew a vial from his belt. The metallic red liquid swirled in its container, shimmering in the moonlight. The prince unstoppered the vial, took a deep breath, and downed the entirety potion in a single gulp.

  A wave of heat spread across his chest; blue puffs came out with his breath. He felt the runium’s power churn within him like a smelting furnace had come alive in the pit of his stomach. He focused on his heartbeat, steadying his breathing, trying to keep the magic from boiling over. When he finally felt like he could focus on something else without losing control of his power, he looked out over the battlements. The enemy was now almost to the wall, a mere handful of feet from the defensive ditches.

  Fadan caught movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up. A massive ball of fire streaked across the night sky, a tiny sun shooting towards them. It had to be the catapult Phaedra had mentioned. The projectile arced through the air and began its descent towards the wall.

  Intila wasn’t trying to tear the wall down—he wanted to burn them all alive.

  Fadan forgot to breathe for a moment. He felt the soldiers around him tense. There were gasps among the soldiers, and most of the archers stopped firing, unable to keep themselves from looking up at the massive, incoming fire bomb. The projectile grew bigger and bigger, hurling towards them at an incredible speed, and then it exploded in a blinding flash, its burning fuel spewing everywhere.

  Fadan covered his eyes. When he lowered his arm a few hesitant moments later, he blinked a couple of times in disbelief. A translucent barrier hung high in the air, rippling in every color of the rainbow, keeping the fire from raining down on the wall.

  His Legionaries broke into cheers, fists raised in the air.

  “Over there!” one Legionary shouted, stretching an arm towards the top of the main tower.

  All along the wall, soldiers turned and looked up. Phaedra stood there, wrapped in a blue blaze, sending the soldiers into a new wave of cheers and celebrations.

  The enemy army, however, was not deterred. Raising their shields to protect themselves from the slivers of fire raining down on their side of the battlefield, Intila’s Legionaries marched on.

  “Eyes front!” Fadan commanded. “This isn’t over yet.”

  “You heard the prince!” the captain barked, the veins on his neck bulging. “Archers, resume fire. Infantry, at the ready!”

  The Legionaries obeyed, archers nocking new arrows and infantrymen slamming their feet on the stones of the rampart.

  Down below, the advancing maniples reached the defensive ditches. The difficult terrain did its job, breaking the tight formation into a jumbled mess.

  My turn, Fadan thought. He focused on his runium reserves, igniting its power. As the magic began to churn inside him, he brought his hands up beside himself and saw a blue halo gleaming around them. “Stand aside!”

  The archer in front of him turned, and what he saw must have been quite alarming, as his eyes widened to the point where they threatened to pop out of their sockets. The man stumbled aside, and Fadan stepped up onto the battlement.

  He looked down. Enemy soldiers trudged through the muddy, uneven terrain. Without the protection of their tight formation, they were far more exposed to the constant shower of arrows, and some fell looking akin to pincushions. Others dropped through the tiger traps between ditches, meeting their deaths at the wooden spikes hidden underneath.

  The first deaths of the war. Fadan’s war. Their shrill screams sent a chill down his spine. It was as if the screams were meant for him alone, laying the blame for all that death on him. The thought was too much to bear and he pushed it away. This had to be done. It was too late for seconds thoughts, now.

  A large portion of enemy soldiers, however, were finally reaching the wall, ducking beneath their large shields. It was just the vanguard, but the units carrying the climbing ladders were not far behind.

  Fadan took a deep breath. Could he do this? Would the spell even work?

  Theoretically, it should. He had tested it before, but only on a couple of people, never at this scale.

  He brought his arms above his head and closed his eyes, running the incantation in his head. He felt a tingling sensation spread through his arms, hands, and fingers. The spell was being channeled, the mnemonic was working. The relief made his muscles unclench, and the spell seemed to grow even stronger. Reopening his eyes, Fadan swung his arms downwards and released a burst of power, concentrating on releasing his spell with precision.

  Nothing happened. There was no grand burst of light, no beams that shot off the tips of his fingers. Then again, there wasn’t supposed to be. What worried him was the lack of reaction from below.

  That was until a handful of yelps echoed up to him. They became shouts, first of surprise, then of panic, and they seemed to quickly multiply.

  Without losing focus on channeling the spell, Fadan glanced away from the shadow of the wall beneath his feet and looked further down the battlefield. Thick beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, but to his massive relief, he saw that the enemy advance was grinding to a halt. The enemy soldiers were sinking slowly into the mud, exchanging confused glances with each other. They were doing their best to free themselves, pulling their heavy, steel-plated boots out of the mud just to sink them even deeper when they landed back on the ground. They sunk quickly to their knees and began to panic, screaming for help.

  Horns began to sound frantically as if mimicking the fright of the troops, and those who had reached the wall began to pull away. What had once been an orderly, unstoppable march forward had turned into a sea of soldiers desperately trying to claw themselves out of a sinking pit. The few that remained fully above ground fled, only some stopping to help their trapped comrades.

  The enemy was in full retreat.

  Fadan broke the magic channeling and released a large breath, feeling like a hole had just been carved from his soul. The world spun, and he had to grab the battlements next to him so as not to fall over. Only then did he realize that, behind him, his soldiers were screaming victory chants, swinging their weapons wildly in the air.

  “Long live Prince Fadan!”

  The chant was echoed a thousand-fold.

  “LONG LIVE PRINCE FADAN!”

  * * *

  “Will everyone please just stop it!” Doric snapped.

  Grudgingly, the others complied.

  “Kicking and wriggling is clearly not doing the trick, so let�
�s think about this.”

  The five of them were tied together in a bundle, Venia standing in the middle and the others with their backs to her.

  “Can anyone reach their weapons?” Debra asked.

  “What do you think I’ve trying to do?” Andon muttered.

  “Yeah, me neither,” Hagon said. “It’s too tight.”

  The rope was wrapped around their abdomens, waists, and thighs, leaving very little of their bodies exposed.

  “Well, I have my father’s sword on my back,” Doric noted. “Venia, do you think you could reach it?”

  The spy looked over her shoulder and saw the exquisite weapon’s golden handle. “Maybe with my teeth…”

  “Could you slide it my way?” Hagon asked. He was shoulder to shoulder with Doric.

  “I think so…” Venia bit the leather strap wrapped around the handle, then stretched her neck sideways straining for a moment until the sword glided smoothly out of its scabbard.

  Looking over his shoulder, Hagon saw the sword coming towards him and reached for it, biting the lion head-shaped pommel. He pulled the sword towards himself and the blade scraped his neck.

  “Ouch!” Hagon complained through his teeth. The damn thing was sharp.

  “Okay, stop!” Venia said, letting go of the sword. “My neck can’t stretch any further. I’m going to have to bite the blade, so be careful not to cut my tongue off.”

  Hagon nodded and Venia readjusted her bite. They resumed their pulling motion, sliding the sword out of the scabbard. They repeated the process slowly and patiently, and soon Hagon was forced to bite the blade as well since the handle was drawing further and further away from him. Along the way, Hagon managed to cut himself two more times, and he was beginning to get worried about hitting a major artery when the tip of the sword finally left the sheath. Without the scabbard to counteract the weight of the sword, it tipped over, sliding from their mouths and falling to the floor with a loud clatter.

  “That didn’t sound good,” Debra said. She was on the opposite side of Hagon and did not have an angle that allowed her to see what was going on.

  “Okay, we need to move in my direction,” Hagon said. “Small steps.”

  They shuffled his way.

  “One. Two. Stop. Now, do you guys think you can get to your knees?” Hagon asked.

  They all made awkward, experimental attempts, bending their legs to one side, then the other. When Debra actually managed to do so, the others nearly tumbled over her.

  “No, you have to bend your legs backwards,” Debra explained.

  “Goddess damn it, guys, watch my feet!” Venia complained.

  Finally, they all managed to kneel, and Hagon fumbled around the dusty floor, his fingers searching for the shape of the sword.

  “Do you have it?” Doric asked.

  Hagon grunted. “Just… could you all scoot just a little to the left? No, Debra, my left, damn it!”

  “Got it!” Doric said. “I got it. Back up. Everyone, stand up.”

  “Hand it to me,” Hagon said.

  Doric ignored him. He wriggled, finding room for his hand to place the blade against the rope, then tried moving it back and forth in a sawing motion.

  “You’re bumping into my butt,” Venia told him.

  “Yeah, well, be thankful the blade is pointing the other way.” Doric’s wrist started cramping and he grimaced. “We’ll be out of this soon.” There was barely enough room within the ropes for his hand to move an inch in either direction. “Ish…”

  * * *

  Cheers and applause followed Fadan as he strode down the stairs of the wall. He managed a smile, waving back at the troops. As he reached the bottom landing, the soldiers began to chant his name, repeating it to exhaustion.

  “Fadan! Fadan! Fadan!”

  He turned to the main tower door, which wobbled in his vision. It took all his strength to keep himself from swaying with it. There couldn’t be more than ten steps separating him from the tower, but it felt like he was traversing the entire Mahar. When he finally reached the door, his Legionaries were still shouting his name.

  “Fadan! Fadan! Fadan!”

  He felt a cold sweat breaking out over his skin as he climbed the stairs of the tower, hands looking for support along the wall.

  “Long live Prince Fadan!” two guards greeted him in unison as he reached his room, smashing their fists against their chests.

  Fadan nodded to them, and quickly pushed through the door between them, closing it behind himself. The room swayed heavily, and he must have tripped over his own feet because suddenly the stone floor was rushing up at him at great speed. His forehead bounced off the stone of the floor, but the pain barely registered. His whole body began to quiver, his teeth rattling as if he were freezing, even though his chest felt on fire.

  Curling into a ball, Fadan tried to control the spasms, focusing on his breathing, just like Sabium had taught him.

  Ocean, fire, and storm, he thought, recalling the mnemonic, dying light, soul reborn.

  Like waves washing over a beach, he felt his power pulse inside his chest, leaving a gaping hole every time it receded.

  Ocean, fire, and storm… dying light, soul reborn.

  His breathing became steadier, softer, and his teeth stopped rattling.

  Ocean, fire, and storm. Dying light, soul reborn.

  The familiar runium burn spread down through his abdomen, arms, and legs, and he stopped shivering.

  Ocean, fire, and storm. Dying light, soul reborn.

  The room stopped moving, and Fadan felt like he was waking up, the sounds of the world returning, the cold, hard surface of the floor biting into his bones, the spot where he’d struck his forehead throbbing with pain, and a warm trickle of blood running down his temple. Taking a deep breath, he sat up, back against the wall opposite the room’s door, feeling glad that the guards standing outside had not heard his fall. He wiped stray strands of hair from his face, his hand coming away wet with sweat.

  The door swung open, startling him. Phaedra looked down at him, her eyes wide, and closed the door behind herself.

  “I’m fine,” Fadan croaked, knowing fully well how bad he probably looked.

  Phaedra didn’t reply. She stepped to him, a grave look on her face, and Fadan saw she was carrying a piece of parchment in one hand. Without a word, she extended the letter to him.

  “What is that?” Fadan asked, frowning.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Shivering again, this time from the genuine coldness of the wall’s stone, Fadan grabbed the letter. The words had not been written in ink, but scorched into the parchment, as if the tip of the quill had been a sharpened ember.

  WHAT HAPPENED TONIGHT WILL NOT REPEAT ITSELF.

  PHAEDRA KNOWS HER ORDERS.

  It was signed by Arch-Mage Persea.

  21

  The Survivors

  At first, Aric had assumed they were in a dungeon, but if that were so, they were its only occupants. The dark tunnel stretched before them, dissolving into shadows. The sparse light from a couple of torches, flickering from iron sconces along the wall, revealed dried streams of blood channeling along the flagstone like borders on a map.

  Leaning heavily on Aric’s shoulder, Eliran dragged herself forward, their steps echoing softly through the otherwise silent hall. What most unsettled Aric, however, were the clusters of faded runes painted on the cracked stone wall. Runes, just like the ones one would find on a Blood House or in the Frostbound.

  This was a place of power, but certainly not one built by Ava.

  Was this built by Kallax? Aric wondered. After all, this island was supposed to be his resting place

  They arrived at an intersection and Aric propped Eliran against a wall, giving his shoulder some respite. The mage winced, hand pressed tightly over where she had been stabbed. She had stopped the bleeding, but clearly not been able to fully heal it. Aric put a finger to his lips, making sure she took notice before he took a peek around the co
rner. There was no one in sight, the passageway beyond splitting off in two directions. The staircase at the left corridor looked fairly more promising than the dark pool of shadows at the right, so Aric made his decision and climbed the stairs with Eliran hanging on his shoulder.

  Upstairs, they were met by another empty corridor, but this one smelled somewhat less damp than the previous ones. A series of open doors speckled the length of the hallway. On the tip of his toes, Aric approached the first one, where low whispers reached his ears.

  Two hooded figures knelt in the center of the small room, their backs to the entrance. They were praying in a language Aric failed to recognize, the walls around them draped in lit candles, melted wax dripping into stiff pools on the floor. Aric glanced at the cup of Kallax, fingers squeezed tightly around a handle, and hoped they weren’t able to somehow sense the magical artifact. He signaled Eliran to be very, very quiet, and the two of them stole across the opened threshold without a sound, Aric’s heart beginning to race in his chest.

  There was no one in the next room, just a small pool filled with a dark liquid that resembled blood, although they didn’t linger long enough to find out. They had to get out of that corridor fast, before anyone spotted them.

  The final room in the hallway was filled with man-sized statues of creatures that were half-human and half-dragon, each a different combination of parts. One had the head and tail of a dragon, while the rest of its body was fully human. Another walked on four dragon limbs, its human head looking over its shoulder and along horns sprouting from its spine. Eliran seemed entranced by them. Letting go of Aric, she stepped into the midst of the statues, eyes wide.

  “What are you doing?” Aric whispered, shooting a worried glance at the door where he’d seen the two kallaxians—or whatever they were—praying.

  “This is incredible…” Eliran breathed, her voice echoing slightly.

  Aric darted into the room and grabbed Eliran’s arm. “We have to go!”