They rode in complete silence for hours. Michael tried his best to clear his mind and focus only on what was at hand, but that in and of itself was a cause for irritation. Everything surrounding the death of his men should’ve shown his reasoning for heightened protection over their realm. His father would have felt the same way. He could almost hear the words coming from his father’s lips — “There is much reason for provision,” he would have said.
Michael felt a hollowing in his gut. It had been awhile since he’d thought about Gabriel. Since finding Ariana, he was more aware of his father’s presence. At times it was as if he were in the room with them. He wanted to go back in time, do things differently, say all the things that he’d never had the chance to say. It pulled at him constantly now.
Over the years since Gabriel’s death, he’d often had nightmares of the Moriors entering Adoria. He could smell their stench as they flew past him. He would always be unable to move; he could only watch helplessly as they destroyed everything in their path.
The same dream always repeated itself in Michael’s mind. He would wake up, sweating and out of breath. He supposed it was the result of how his father died. Now to have Ariana wake up, scarred in any way whatsoever by them, only motivated him more. He’d avenge his father’s death and keep her safe, if nothing else. He still felt in his heart that Middengard was not beyond saving, but should fate be against it, he’d at least restore what had been taken from his own flesh and blood.
It was no wonder the terrifying creatures gave him nightmares. The Moriors’ wings were thin, fleshy sheets covering brittle bones. Their scaled skin appeared rotted, hanging from their skeleton in patches, exposing cavities devoid of living organs.
Their faces were their most disturbing feature. They had a human cheek structure, dark seething eyes, and their teeth were uneven in length. They tore flesh into pieces, a single bite a condemnation of death. Their bodies were long and thin with abnormally narrow torsos. Piercing claws extended from hands whose strength had surprised many Adorians over the centuries. Hooves descended from thick, muscular legs.
Jareth and Caedmon sped up to Michael’s side as they came to the edge of the woods. Beyond them lay the plains that marked the border of the outer regions. Several smaller provinces surrounded this area, including Ruiari and what was once Palingard. Michael slowed down, dismounting near a large series of stones. The other Adorians did the same.
“Do you hear it as well?” Jareth whispered to Michael. Michael nodded. There was a low rumble in the distance. As he looked closer, he saw a cloud of dust on the horizon.
“Riders,” Caedmon growled. He had pale skin and bright blonde hair and a warrior’s build, with broad shoulders and strong limbs. His wings were larger than average. Respectful in his mannerisms, he was always well thought of by any under his command and certainly by Michael.
Michael motioned for the men to tie their horses behind the shelter of the rocks. They’d be less visible if they were aloft.
Rising into the air, Michael stretched his wings, the wind carrying him higher. Michael and his men flew swiftly along the forest canopy. They would be virtually invisible to anyone on the ground.
The riders from Eidolon followed the edges of the plain. He guessed there were about twenty of them. Several miles later, the Adorians came to Ruiari. Characterized by its dark red clay, once it had been a thriving center of culture, renowned for its pottery and sculpture. The buildings were still there, the majority of the city intact. Even though humans still populated it, it was nothing but a shell of what it had once been.
They watched as the leaders of Ruiari met the riders at the city’s gates. They’d been expected. Michael, Caedmon and Jareth settled themselves in trees as close as they could. For a moment it appeared to be a visit of little importance, perhaps just a checkpoint for the riders on their way to somewhere else. But Michael’s blood ran cold as he watched human soldiers fall into perfect alignment before the riders, heard the click of their boots as the men pivoted on their heels, stamped their feet to the ground and turned to face the Ereubinians. It took him a moment to take in was happening before him. There were hundreds of men, all of them built for war, standing motionless as one of the riders walked between the rows. Michael leaned in closer to see if he could recognize the Ereubinian’s face. He narrowed his eyes, and though he could be mistaken, it looked like Jules. Not Garren’s worst commander, though no less vile than the rest.
Jules observed the humans as he walked between them. He occasionally found one who didn’t please him; he would tap the human once on the shoulder and a second rider would slay the human.
Michael, hearing Jareth mutter in disgust, held up his hand to quiet him.
It was a long time before Jules finished his inspection. He handed one of the Ruiari leaders papers bound by twine. Michael feared what the documents might contain. The riders then mounted their horses and turned toward Eidolon. Michael stayed fixed in his position until he was certain the enemy had all retreated behind the walls of the city. One by one, Michael, Jareth and Caedmon dropped from their perches.
Jareth was the first to speak, which wasn’t unusual. “They’ve left the bodies of the slain men to rot in the sun?”
Michael was surprised to hear this question. It was something Jareth should’ve known. Caedmon responded before Michael had a chance.
“Their souls are already in captivity, what importance do the empty vessels carry if they aren’t fit for servitude?” Caedmon’s tone was dark, changed since he’d returned from his confrontation with Garren. Reese, one of the fallen, was his cousin. “Had I the ability, I would bury them myself.”
Jareth leaned over, and squeezed Caedmon’s arm. “And I would aid you, my friend.”
Michael was too distracted by his thoughts to comment. There was only one reason for Eidolon to commission a human army. He’d already started to rise back into the air when he spoke again. “Fly swiftly; it’s not wise to linger here.”
They returned to where they’d hidden their horses. Michael could see one. It stood unmoving before one of the rocks, having pulled its reins loose from the tree. Jareth skipped as his feet touched the ground, landing closest to the horse. He walked up to it, placing his hands on the reins.
“How did you manage to free your ...” he stopped as, suddenly, the horse fell to the ground, its body completely gutted of bones and innards. Jareth stepped back in horror, his mouth open.
“Such a pity. All three beasts seemed to have been fine specimens. Though, I do believe you’ll be missed a bit more than your horses.” Jules, along with the other riders, materialized before their eyes. They were completely surrounded.
Michael had been close on his estimation. He now counted twenty-two of them. He drew his sword, bending his knees as all three of them backed into the center of the circle, keeping their eyes on the opposition. Michael ran through their options in his head. He’d seen too many Adorians assume flight was an appropriate course of retreat, only to lose their lives to the arrow of a crossbow. That’s when he saw the movement in the trees beyond.
“Nethlo lai werndt ados.” Michael tightened his grip on his sword.
Caedmon murmured in response. “Tourne ethlis.”
Jules laughed as he stepped forward. “Your commands will do your companions little good, Michael. No matter the meaning behind the words, you are marked for death.”
A grin spread across Michael’s face. Garren wanted Michael to cease with his infantile efforts? So be it. “You arrogantly assume to know both the purpose and directive of my commands.” Michael folded his wings behind him, a sign of ease. “It isn’t my immediate companions to whom the words were intended. It is to my legion.”
Jules watched with horror as seven hundred Adorian fighters descended from the trees and surrounded them on all sides. A rumble sounded as several hundred more, mounted on horseback with their swords held readied in their hands, emerged from the forest.
Kendall, one of Mic
hael’s commanders, dropped to the ground nearby to address him. “I received word of the High Lord’s undetected advance on Caedmon’s men and figured there was a good chance that His Loathness wasn’t the only one with newly formed abilities. I am well aware of the severance, my Lord. The elders can rot in Hothrendaire for all I care.”
Michael stepped forward, torn between gratitude for Kendall’s loyalty and quick thinking and frustration for his having gone against the elders’ wishes. At the moment, gratitude was the greater of the two emotions. He looked at Jules.
“I could choose you, but perhaps I will offer you clemency. Pick for me your weakest soldier, his life in exchange for your freedom.” Jules paused a moment, hesitant to trust Michael’s words. “The choice is yours. Do you not have a single dispensable soldier among them? Or are you telling me that you’re willing to die for your men?”
Jules scanned the lot of them, finally resting his eyes on one who stood behind Jareth. He was one of the younger, thinner men. Jules, his hand shaking, pointed him out.
“You’re certain? This is whom you’ve appointed to whatever end I deem fit?”
“I don’t understand the reason for your mercy, but I’m indebted to you.”
Michael took the fated one by the shoulders, looking down at him. He was but a boy in a man’s suit of armor. “As you should be, Jules. I’m granting you freedom from a long lifetime of depravity and wickedness.”
A brief shadow of fear fell across Jules’s countenance.
“Tourne ethlis!” Michael shouted.
Jules never had a chance to respond. Michael raised his wings around the boy, shielding him from the carnage that roared around them.
Michael made eye contact with the boy. “I need you to deliver a message for me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE VERY FOUNDATIONS
“Y
ou are not finding Adoria palatable?” Bronach’s voice, though unexpected, did not startle Ariana. Its depth filled the small reading room with a feeling of near-reverence, everything else falling away in his presence.
Ariana had begun to notice this — the manner with which he seemed effortlessly to navigate the world around him. It wasn’t wisdom or the maturity that comes with age — not even peace, for sadness seemed to dog his steps. She turned in her seat, studying him as he walked into the light, grateful for the interruption.
“Adoria, yes. My taskmaster of a brother, no.”
Bronach laughed, “I have heard he has taken it upon himself to be your warden. It is the way of things here, you mustn’t take it quite so personally.”
“Perhaps.” She took an unladylike bite of kestath root, sucking on it for a moment, letting the bitter spice soak her tongue before chewing. “You’ve studied all of this — have you knowledge of human history as well?” Ariana asked. She half-expected Bronach not to have understood her words since she barely did herself. She swallowed and put her snack away.
“They intertwine much more than most realize. Middengard and Adoria have always been tethered in one way or another. But I see more deliberate questions in your eyes. Have you not yet learned there is nothing unworthy of asking?”
She wondered for a moment if he would think her raving mad. Gesturing to a picture drawn in one of the leather-bound books in front of her, she said, “This picture, I’ve ...” She let her fingers play across the image, remembering how she’d felt upon first seeing it. “I’ve seen this before.”
Bronach dropped the bundle he’d carried into the reading room with him, sending parchment maps and loose papers scattering to the floor.
“My, my, these old bones of mine. Forgive me,” he said as he scooped the majority of them into his arms and sat down beside her. He almost missed his chair, his eyes were so locked onto her. “Continue, please. My clumsiness does little good for those with the unfortunate task of being around me. What were you saying?”
“Just before I came into Adoria, I — you’ll think me delusional — it’s nothing.”
Bronach placed a hand over hers, giving it a tender squeeze. “Child, speak, there is no harm in telling a brittle-minded old man.”
“I found a city just before I came here, though it couldn’t have been real. I went into a temple and saw this image, among others, painted on the ceiling.”
“Why do you believe your sight false?”
“Because the stones fell to ruin before my eyes. I saw a child there, beside a pool of dark water. She showed me images of my parents, and spoke nonsensical things. ‘Say the words.’”
“You found the sword outside of the city walls, if my guess is correct.”
“Yes, did…”
“Michael has left the sword in my care for now to research its origin. Tell me, what have you read of the immortals?”
“Very little, they’re scarcely mentioned in the books I’ve been privy to. This book makes a couple references, but they’re vague at best.”
Bronach turned the book so the picture of the lovers was visible to both of them. When he spoke, his mouth trembled with age. “The two you see before you are Irial and Èanna. Remember their names well, for before the world was as it is now, a great love was lost. It is because of their sacrifice that we stand not in the depths of Hothrendaire.
“Darkness has many names and has worn many faces. None has brought him pleasure, only pain and suffering, which he has gladly shared with the mortals of the created realms. He wants for nothing, every indulgence may be granted to him upon a whim, save the one thing his heart truly longs for — Èanna, the daughter of light. Knowing this, her father, the creator, kept his only daughter safe behind the infinite gates to the realm of light and for a time she lived contentedly.
“It came to pass though, as he had feared, that she caught a glimpse of the created worlds and those who reigned in sovereignty — the immortals. She watched them, curious of their ways, and remained at a distance until she saw Irial. After such a thing has stirred the heart of one so innocent, it is irreversible. She could not cross over to touch his brow, or hold his hand, or even whisper his name so that he thought it more than the intimate whisper of the trees. She begged her father for his consent to enter the created worlds, but he refused her, and threatened to take away her ability to view them if she spoke of it again.”
“The immortals were all given gifts, some to use for good, and some to protect from the Dark Lord’s hand. One had the gift of nature, and created all that you see around you. She could imagine lakes, and mountains, and forests; some that mortal eyes have never beheld. Another had the gift of music. Every melody sung by bird or mortal came from his thoughts. Yet another had the gift of language, and all things spoken, or written came from her hand. Bronach was granted the gift of sorrow, and was the only immortal who could freely enter the realm of light and commune with the father, for he was the eldest — his gift borne from the creation of Hothrendaire itself.
“Bound in duty by the creator, the immortals ruled among the creatures and balanced the power of the darkness, for the seeds of darkness had long been sown in the realm of man, though at that time few understood how firm evil’s foothold was. They fought for the perseverance of goodness and virtue against the nightmares of the dark realm. None could imagine a world where light did not prevail in the end.”
“Bronach felt Èanna’s sorrow and petitioned her father, begging him to see for himself the depths of her love for the immortal. When he did, he saw he had no choice, and despite his will, he granted her a mortal form.”
“Èanna said nothing of her true form, but Irial knew the moment he laid eyes on her. They fell in love. It was a love deeper than that felt by any other, and stronger than the power of both light and darkness. It was felt from the foundations of the world, and beyond that even to the dredges of the dark realm itself — awakening in the Dark Lord an even greater hunger for her, an obsession that drove his every breath.”
“Two things of great importance had been entrusted to the immortals, the Sw
ord of Death and the Book of Life. The Sword of Death was too dark a creation to rest within the realm of light, and too dangerous for it to be within the Dark Lord’s grasp. The Book of Life had in it the prophecies said to have been spoken by the Oracle, the great one who lived before all mortal creatures were in existence.”
“Dairinn, the immortal with the gift of strife, was guardian of the sword and the book. It was his betrayal that plunged all who lived and breathed into shadow. Ciara, the immortal with the gift of language, wove her tales as the Dark Lord had tempted her, and she opened the forbidden pages of the Book of Life, and touched them with the blade of the sword, tearing out the Prophecy of the Oni, and stealing the sword just as Dairinn was caught in his treason.”
“Condemned to Hothrendaire with Dairinn and two others who willfully betrayed the creator, Ciara began to cultivate the darkness that had long lay in the realm of man. She promised power and immortality in exchange for service to her, and her free entrance into their world. They opened the gateway between Hothrendaire and Middengard, sealing the fates of all mortal and immortal beings. In the Dark Lord’s hands now rested the power to take lives for eternity, leaving no soul to either Hothrendaire or the realm of light.”
“Knowing how greatly the Dark Lord coveted her, Èanna made a trade — her life in exchange for the lives of all others.”
Ariana kept her eyes on the image, understanding now the expressions they wore. “What a dark tale. Is that the end of it?” she asked.
“For now,” Bronach whispered.
She laughed, shutting the pages of the book. “Your parents must have had a sense of humor. Who would name their child after what might as well be the God of sorrow?”
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