Fogle Eric - Forge of the Gods 01 - The Last Knight (V1.0)

by 5kops

If time didn't stop then what happened? he mused. Did the event merge the contin-

  What if we are only assuming that time as we know it is the truth? He thought, trying to grasp such alien ideas. He looked once again at the decaying feather and fear burned through his immortal soul.

  What if such alterations to time were not perceptible by divine beings? What if eternal time has slowed down so much that a new reality pound forth, one where we are now caught up in the mortal timeline!

  The angel finally understood. Heaven was caught up in time. Whatever had transpired had bound Heaven to mortal reality.

  Heaven's clock was now ticking . . . and they were all dying!

  11

  21st Eternity (Heavenly Timeline)

  2004 A. D. (After Devoid), Year of the Eagle (Mortal Timeline)

  EARLY MORNING fog blanketed the stone valley as mist drizzled down upon a beleaguered rider who had been traveling through the Ironstone Mountains, a tectonic range that stretched from the northern tip of Ratha-don to the southern coasts of Almassia, for weeks. Needless to say it was a tough ride in even the most pleasant of seasons. Now that autumn had be­gun to wane and winter was setting in, it made the trek all the worse.

  The rider, a Bre'Dmorian Knight, wondered when the first winter storm would unleash itself on the mountain pass, a common occurrence during this time of year. The thought made the knight shudder. He might not be able to escape this place before that happened, which was akin to slowly freezing to death.

  The knight searched the fog bank looking for alternatives. However, it was so dense that it was impossible to see farther than twenty paces ahead, making the unpaved road disappear into nothingness. Again he shivered, this time pulling his cape closer an attempt to block out the early morning chill.

  Lord Bowon Silvershield grumbled a curse. It had been many weeks since he had eaten a hot meal or even sipped the warm tea he so enjoyed. The cold made his bones ache and was multiplied by the fact that he had spent too much time on horseback. He could only imagine how his war-horse felt.

  The thought of his weary steed made Bowon stretch out a gauntleted hand and stroke the charger's silky black mane. He had not been able to feed his warhorse a proper meal of oats for several days and needed to remind the beast that his trip was almost over. The charger simply grunted in approval, nodding several times before indicating they had come to yet an­other fork in the road.

  "This place is a maze!" Bowon exclaimed, his greens eyes squinting into the thick fog. It seemed like he had been on this same stretch of road for more than a week . . . and maybe they had. The knight no longer knew what to think. It seemed as if time and all the life that encompassed it had stopped.

  "Maybe it is time that I admit I'm lost," Bowon said, knowing that with­out the sun or moon there would be no chance of finding the proper direc­tion through the valley. He told himself that because of the fog, which re­fused to rise above the mountains even a well trained astrologer would be lost in these dreary days. It lessen the sting some.

  Lowering his gaze, Bowon shivered and issued several new commands to his mount. His trained warhorse reacted with a confident "nay" before veering right. The knight understood that allowing his horse to choose their path was a dangerous move, but what other choice did he have? At least he knew his steed could navigate the hidden road.

  Of course, with no concrete destination, Bowon thought, we are relying upon the luck of the draw as to where we end up.

  As his charger lurched forward, Bowon let his thoughts wander, re­membering all the deeds that had led him to this point. For the last five years he had crusaded in the name of God, searching for a source of great chaos that threatened the land. During that time, he had met with one fail­ure after another as each lead proved to be false. To make matters worse, God still refused to clarify what Bowon was searching for, maintaining that miracles and chaos defined the nature of the source. Thus, he had spent these last several years tracking down rumors, traveling between kingdoms and seeking out ancient texts, which only led him to more rumors.

  Is it coincidence that each rumor has taken me to different regions? He thought. Though I have learned new ways of life and historical facts, why won't God tell me what to look, for?

  Bowon stiffened. His thoughts bordered on blasphemy; he should be ashamed of himself! He had never felt as lost as he did now. Nothing was working the way he planned; he was trapped in this fog, the ancient books revealed nothing, and in his despair, he blamed God.

  I am traveling blind, The knight thought, conceding that he knew not where the strands of fate were taking him. I refuse to say such things. I do have a goal: to seek out the source. I just don't know where to find it, or what exactly it is.

  Bowon considered it ironic that his inability to find the source was what had led him here, to this pass, in which he was lost. He had been told to seek a local legend, a blind prophet named Malacheye, a hermit who sup­posedly lived somewhere in this mountain pass. In truth, he now realized he had made a mistake by coming this far alone, that his pride and fresh tracks had led him astray. He had followed the tracks into the stone valley that he was now wandering. Then the thick blanket of fog had toppled down upon him and all sight had been cut off.

  I let thoughts of arrogance cloud my judgment, Bowon fumed. If only I had stayed tme to the Code! He had persuaded himself that nothing was more important than the will of God. Because of this, his heart had swelled at the thought of Starsgalt's choosing him to serve in such a holy quest. Such thoughts had allowed him to travel down a dangerous path. He had aligned with a man of evil repute in search of information, dismissed his guide, and still thought he was following God's will!

  The knight thought of the years he spent buried in the libraries of Ars-goth's trio of academies.

  "That is where I should have stayed," he said to the stallion. "If only I could take it all back!" It was not that any of the things he had done both­ered him, as much as they were all for naught—a waste of valuable time he didn't have to spare.

  Bowon's war-horse stopped in mid stride.

  Looking down he noticed that its ears were perked at an odd angle, hearing something the knight could not. A quick survey of the shrouded land, still deep within the fog's embrace, revealed nothing so the knight spoke another quick command. The charger grunted and shook its head. With an irritated sigh, Bowon hopped down from his mount and grabbed the reins. Though the warhorse looked tired, other than the flaring of its nostrils, the knight could see nothing wrong. The stallion grunted, nuzzling into the large warrior.

  "Are you finally lost then, my old friend?" Bowon asked, surprised at the unexpected attention from his mount. The two had been together for over seven years, since before he had set out from Aresleigh on this cru­sade. "Or are you just hungry?"

  ‘’Your horse is not lost," said a voice from behind the thick mist. "He has led you to me."

  Bowon spun around, drawing steel and unclasping his cape in a single movement.

  The figure in front of him did not pose much of a threat: an old man sit­ting on the ground, shakily holding an oak staff. The man looked wild in­deed, his clothes in tatters and his gray hair a tangled frenzy that pointed every direction.

  Yet it was none of those attributes that made the knight uneasy. It was the fact that the man's black, sightless eyes were following him with a mournful expression.

  "Are you the prophet Malacheye?" Bowon asked cautiously, hoping that after a week's journey, he had finally stumbled upon the hermit.

  The old man did not answer the question, simply offering a gap-toothed grin.

  Bowon recognized the man's telltale description and so slid his sword back into its jeweled scabbard. He raised his hands in supplication and be­gan to ask another question but was cut off.

  "I have been waiting for you, child," Malacheye said. " And though it has taken you several years to find me, I knew you would finally come."

  "You are mistaken, sir," Bowon replied with a con
fused expression. "This is the first we have ever—"

  "It is unimportant that we have never met, child, because I know you." The man turned and waved the knight to follow him into the parting fog.

  "Why should I follow you?"

  "Because I know what you seek," Malacheye said. "For all these years, you have wandered lost in a fog much like this. If you come with me, I shall help you find what you seek."

  Bowon hesitated, unsure of what to do. The old man waited for him to follow, but the knight was frozen in place. "Who are you?" The question lingered, as Bowon tried to think of a solution to this eerie predicament.

  "Unimportant," Malacheye whispered. "Know only that I have the in­formation you so desperately desire."

  "Prove to me, sir." The knight stood frozen. "Prove to me that the leg­ends concerning you are true! Tell me one piece of my future."

  "The future is not to be revealed so casually, youngling," the prophet re­sponded. "It is not something you wish to know."

  "I am not afraid of my death," Bowon stated, thinking he knew what the prophet would tell him. "Now if I am to follow you, tell me a piece of my future."

  Malacheye turned and his dark orbs no longer seemed empty. Some­thing glittered in the darkness. "As you wish, child," the prophet said. "In five years, you will be taught a lesson of divine magnitude and it will start you down a misguided path. Yet, this path, which you will fake, will only spiral you down into misery. When that cycle is complete, you will betray the only thing you love, and when you do, the Bre'Dmorian Order will fall."

  Bowon stood in shock, while Malacheye moved into the mist.

  ****

  The dragon Silverwing soared above the Lightmist Mountains, peering down at rugged grey rock still frosted with ice. After five years of scouring the small Kingdom of Rathadon, a relatively new monarchy, for an un­known source of imbalance, she was becoming desperate. More important, Illuviel, The One God, was tiring at her lack of information.

  Silverwing flexed her mighty wings and circled a giant outcropping of jagged rock. She told herself that this was all in the service of God. How­ever, she could feel things changing. Illuviel, whatever his goals, had began to awaken any dragon he could contact, most of which were still undergo­ing the Divine Purge.

  It was not uncommon that Illuviel chose to record history with multiple agents, which proved He worked in mysterious ways. Yet, Silverwing had not expected God to wake thousands of her kind to scour the whole of the world. She considered her mission—to seek out miracles, gather informa­tion, and destroy the unknown source—perfect for solo research. As the eldest champion awake, she deserved such respect.

  It is almost insulting the dragon sighed. She felt betrayed that God had not been clearer, expecting her to follow His hints. The problem was that none of His hints made any sense! If she did not know better, Silverwing would have thought that the One God did not know what He was after.

  She cleared her mind of the blasphemous thought, which furthered her ire, and scolded herself for doubting Illuviel's divine sight. It just did not make any sense: why was God being so silent in affirming the source of His desire? And now thisl

  Was God questioning her intellectual abilities? That is absurd! There is no reason why God should doubt my ability to gather His information, she thought. In fact, there is no reason why He is doing any of this! What help can the others possibly be to me?

  So far, Silverwing had encountered dozens of her kind roaming the vast continent of Jelindia, many willing to share what little information they could . . . which was nothing. She grumbled and told herself that their lack of knowledge just proved her hypothesis correct: she should be the only dragon working on this crusade!

  As she circled the outcrop, Silverwing spotted a massive cavern that darkened the side of the mountain. The sight of the cavern made her anx­ious, a strange emotion for such a long-lived race. She closed her eyes and held her breath, trying to stop the frantic beating of her heart. After several ineffective moments, she let her keen senses reach out, looking for the thing she knew resided in such a place. It only took a moment for fear to wash over her.

  This is a bad idea, she thought, beating her wings in a slow rhythmic mo­tion, allowing herself to hover. She considered reversing her course, hoping that she could change God's mind. She was about to turn back when an­other wave of divine fear washed over her, strong enough to make her wings falter—strong enough that she knew the thing she sought was some­how calling her.

  Catching a current of air to stabilize her flight, the dragon realized she was frightened. She craned her neck towards the sky, her limbs feeling heavy and sluggish.

  "My Lord God, are you certain that you wish me to do this?" Her voice boomed. She received only silence. "Illuviel, Master of All Knowledge, please speak to me! I know there are great events about to unfold, Master, but to awaken the Shadow Dragons ... it could induce the end of this world!"

  Again she was met by smothering silence. The ancient Shadow Dragons were Sinafthisar, who had turned from God during the creation of the Mor­tal Plane. They were so powerful that Heaven refused to destroy them, in­stead placing a great curse upon the entire sect.

  With a shudder, Silverwing knew that this particular Shadow Dragon, Vulsevandat, would be especially displeased at having his slumber inter­rupted. To make matters worse, she was waking him on God's behalf, who was hoping that such an ancient wyrm might hold answers. She realized that it was fear of the Shadow that had led to her questioning Illuviel, The One True God.

  The thought of waking the Shadow clouded Silverwing's mind with trepidation. It was not worth the sacrifice, as legends pertaining to these monsters were painstakingly clear: not all of dragonkind were creatures of knowledge. In truth, she knew that there were those among dragonkind who wished nothing more than to destroy Heaven. Since that was out of the question, such dragons often obliterated lesser races and killed their own kind. Most of these Shadow Dragons were hunted by roaming armies of humans and killed or grew so old that they never left their lairs. Which posed the question: how may Shadows were actually in existence?

  "A question for another time," she told herself. "Now, if I wish to sur­vive this encounter, I must focus!"

  Silverwing tried to recall the history of Vulsevandat. Though existence of such a beast was considered folklore, as the mighty Shadow had not been seen for over eleven thousand years, some tales still existed. Degend said that Vulsevandat was the mightiest Sinafthisar in existence, first born of Heaven, and older than the mortal timeline itself. Those same texts de­scribed the wyrm as a killer of anything it pleased, quite capable of mad fits.

  If he is anything like the last Shadow, then I will be attacked on sight, Silverwing thought, preparing several arcane defenses.

  Though it was forbidden to kill her own kind in cold blood, if it came down to it and she had no choice, she would fight back with lethal force. Of course, she realized that if a batde ensued her life would end. If Vulsevandat meant to kill her, whether she was a Champion of Illuviel or not, there was no way to stop him. Dying at the hands of such a vile beast angered her. She was a faithful servant of God, His proclaimed champion, why had He wasted her on such a menial task?

  "Because Vulsevandat might respect my age enough to listen," she growled to no one, "at least, before he incinerates me."

  With a deft motion, Silverwing folded her wings, closed her eyes, and spun into a tight dive, speeding towards the ground like an arrow. It was a maneuver that helped release her fear. If she did not react in time, she would perish on the ground, and God could find Himself a new champion. If she was quick enough, however, she could catch an updraft, catapulting herself into an aerial display.

  The ground fast approached, rock clusters opening like a razor-edged maw in anticipation of its prey. At the last moment, the dragon's wings spread wide and she rolled her body to catch the wind. The strain on her joints caused bittersweet agony to shoot through her system as she used the ai
r currents to slingshot herself through the air with tremendous force. When she opened her eyes, Silverwing noticed that she was still airborne, and that her daredevil antics had succeeded.

  It seems I am to survive, she thought. She had lived for nearly twelve thou­sand years, recording history and gathering information; it seemed today began another chapter in that saga.

  Making another circle of the area, Silverwing again hovered over the rock spire and picked out what she was searching for: a jutting rock, which looked a lot like a tusk and signified the entrance to a massive hall. If her memory was correct, this was Neth'uul Stenuuk, or Hall of Stone, an an­cient dwarven kingdom destroyed in the Purge of Ancient Souls. If her his­tory was correct, she could assume that Vulsevandat had resided here for no more than fourteen hundred years, since the last time humans tried to secure the region in the Year of the Lightbringers.

  Silverwing found an open spot and landed on a crumbling road, moss covered statues of gold, silver, and Neferium lining each side. Next to each statue stood makeshift pillars made from the skulls of the lesser races; the stench of death and decay clogged her senses. As a reactionary measure, she recast a series of powerful defensive spells which she hoped would annul the Shadow's breath weapon, should he use it. Of course, there was a chance that Vulsevandat would see the wards as offensive and annihilate her anyway.

  With a sigh, the dragon tried to calm her nerves, moving almost in slow motion as she neared the mouth of the cave. After several steps she snapped her eyes shut, fear creating hallucinations in her mind, and stopped. Using every ounce of her willpower, the dragon forced her mas­sive talons to again move forward and eventually reached a greasy film that covered her thick scales, some kind of ward to keep out lesser species. The film clung to her scaled body like a glistening sheen of sweat, making her shiver. When she opened her eyes, Silverwing was greeted with utter dark­ness, having to rely on her acute senses to maneuver.

  It took only a moment for her eyes to adjust, easily picking up the huge form wrapped peacefully around a massive column. She could feel her heart clench in fear, body frozen. Struggling to move, she willed herself onto an obsidian platform, built long ago so incoming arbiters could show proper respect.