Blessings and Trials (Exiles and Sojourners Book 1)

by Thomas Davidsmeier

  “I guess the poor beasts had good reason to be nervous,” muttered Gilm angrily to himself as he rolled over. He had brought his own much-loved horse all the way from Arhaus. “As if I didn’t have enough reason to kill you already,” the Waterwright hissed to the as-yet unseen dragon. He tried to look natural and cowardly as he flopped and wriggled to the spot that he had prepared for himself.

  Elred was the only other man to recover as quickly as Gilm. “To the river!” shouted the older man, trying to rally the other ten men to their places. Some were quaking where they had fallen. Some were struggling to their feet, looking around with wide eyes for their foe.

  Gilm knew that the men from Swiftwater had only ever been in a few skirmishes with raiders from Wildmen tribes. The town was on the edge of the more-cultivated lands that stretched over many leagues to Ravensburg. They had nothing like Gaia’s Savages that harassed Arhaus. Still, fighting the Savages was nothing like fighting a dragon. Gilm had known that fact even before the creature had incinerated all of their horses in a matter of seconds.

  He must not want any of us to hop on a horse and get away. Or, maybe they would be more trouble to track down later if he blasted us first and scared them off. God help me, this Corrupted must think that chasing down horses is more trouble than killing twelve armed men. The last thought was actually an earnest prayer by the young Blessed. Gilm curled up on his spot, his bare foot just where it needed to be, his necklace of charged crystals resting under his leather armor and stuck in his layer of “swamp mud” ointment. He covered his head and waited, hoping he looked like the easiest target to start with.

  The rush of wind and flapping of wings was unmistakable. The men in the river cried out and Elred shouted to steady and quiet them. Then came the voice. Higher and softer than Gilm had expected, not nearly as thunderous and frightening. “Ssso, what are sssuch tender and delishhiousss delicasssiess doing out in the wildsss?”

  Trying to stay in the character of a coward unable to face the dragon, Gilm peeked up, and again was surprised. The beast sat at the edge of the scorched horse picket-line on its hind quarters, with its back legs tucked in close, like a cat would. Its long tail was flicking back and forth behind it, and its wings, which were also its arms, were held up, fanned wide over its serpentine neck. Large, yellow-green eyes glared out from a long, narrow head that looked like nothing but eyes and toothy maw. For all this, Gilm couldn’t help but notice that it was not much bigger than a draft horse. Of course horses don’t often breathe hellfire, thought Gilm to himself, So that comparison is a little misleading. But the size put it into the ‘one year awake between hibernations’ category. That was a frightfully long time for a beast like this to be running amok in the Backwaters.

  “Curse you, vile beast!” shouted Elred firmly, drawing his sword. The men with bows nocked arrows and took aim. “You’ve preyed on my clan’s village and I am here to avenge them.”

  “I don’t ssssee how I preyed on anyone. They gave the young maidensss to me. All I did wasss assssk. They didn’t even have proper debatessss about which onesss to give me.” Disappointment weighed down the last sentence. The knife-like teeth that lined Zoamizeo’s mouth were making its words slither out, like snakes through dry grass. “You ssssshould take thisss up with the cowardsss in your own clan.”

  Gilm could have sworn that the alien, reptilian face of the dragon had a mocking grin on it as it hissed the last line. This parley made sense. Dragons were the Corrupted of Molech. The dragon was probably already feasting on the anger, fear, and pain of the men here. Gilm took a risk and let his mind slip into what he thought of as the ouranic realm. He possessed a rare gift that allowed him to see the flow and movement of the powers and energies in the ouranic realm. There were other rare gifts he would have prefered, like being a teledyne, able to exercise his Blessing at a distance, without touching the material he was acting on. That would have been extremely helpful at the moment.

  As his mind entered the other view of the world, he saw the prismatic shift of colors that came when he was looking at both Ouronus and Kosmos, the spiritual and the physical. Just as he had thought, there were slender red and purple tendrils spilling up from the men in the river, flowing in thread-like streams over to the dragon’s hulking form. In the Ouronic view, the shard of the spirit of Molech revealed itself as an inky black patch of seething, roiling darkness.

  Suddenly, Gilm realized that the darkness was bubbling up inside the dragon. Casting aside his awareness of the spiritual realm, Gilm threw himself back to the physical and concentrated on his foot, sticking into a little trench that had been covered over with reeds, leaves and dirt. It made a little hidden watery path from the river to Gilm. It was through his foot’s contact with this little lifeline of water that Gilm sent his concentration and power. From one drop to the next, Gilm’s will flowed, like fresh snowmelt down a mountainside in spring. Even as the darkness in the dragon’s soul was boiling up into a roaring eruption of hellfire, Gilm grabbed the water of the river and threw up a towering thick wall in front of the men in the shallows.

  Hissing and billowing steam filled the air, and the whole bank of the river was suddenly covered in hot fog. A roar of anger escaped Zoamizeo, “Is one of you a disciple of the Exile Hydrola? My line, from my Katanalisssko on, hasss sssworn their deathsss by Molech’ss vengeanssse! Ssshow yourssself, water witch!” Another gout of flame blasted into the fog, but Gilm had already pulled up another water wall to protect his companions. The hot fog only thickened, until it was like Nari’s cream-of-mushroom soup.

  Gilm reached up with one hand and concentrated for a moment. His fingertips were covered with soft, frosty crystals. He gathered all of his concentration, and then reached out through the fog and pulled hard with all his mind and spirit, summoning even some of the strength stored in the crystals of his necklace. A great grinding crack was heard, the sound of ice against ice, and it was immediately followed by a deafening, inhuman howl of pain.

  Flinging himself up, Gilm dashed for the river. He felt naked when his connection to the water was broken.

  “Aaagh! My wingsss, my beautiful wingsss! Thisss isss what the water witchesss did to Katanalisssko! How did you know? You are water witchesss,” screeched Zoamizeo, in rage and agony.

  “I’m not a witch,” bellowed back Gilm, with more strength than he really had.

  “No matter what you are,” roared the dragon in answer, “This didn’t kill Katanalisssko, and it won’t kill Zoamizeo. I will enjoy eating your liver, Not-a-witch.”

  “Not my heart?” asked Gilm unable to overcome his own curiosity.

  “Without a heart, you would be dead,” came the reply from closer than before. “Thisss way I can tell you how you compare, bite for bite, to thossse lovely young maindensss from that village. They were delishiosss, but they cried too much and did not ssscream enough. Too ssssad.”

  That was too much for Elred. His clan had lost two young girls to this brute, and he would not stand by while it mocked them. He raised his sword over his head and charged at the sound of the voice in the fog.

  “Shut your filthy mouth, demonspawn!” screamed Elred as he closed on what was at best a shadowy mass in the fog. “You’ll wish you’d never touched a Greyfox woman when I’m done with you!”

  The warrior’s sword flashed down at what he took to be the dragon’s head. He had guessed rightly, but the blade did little more than clang to the side and spark a little as he finished in a crouch. Elred’s muscles flashed in a trained and natural flow. He rebounded instantly bringing all his body up. Feet and legs twisting, he launched his blade on a slicing upper cut at the beast’s neck. But again, the fine steel clattered off of the scales of the creature’s hide uselessly.

  “Perhapsss if I were of a lessser line,” hissed the dragon with mock pity, as it slammed a claw into Elred’s side. “Your sssplinter of metal might actually do me harm.” The dragon’s tail swept the man’s feet from under him, and he tumbled down. “But I am onl
y four sssiresss removed from Molech himssself. No blade but the Numaxssiphusss can harm me, even in my youth.” The dragon pounced upon Elred like a barn cat on a mouse, burying two or three claws in him. “And that cursssed white blade isss sssafely tucked away with my grandsssire under the sssea.”

  “Speaking of the sea,” came a voice a little ways off in the fog. Suddenly, there was a crashing rush of water, blasting into the side of the dragon’s face. At first, it just tried to turn away, then it began to sputter, then it abandoned its perch on Elred and, too late, tried to flee. Water kept coming after the first blast, not letting up. Water, alive with a will all its own, wormed and writhed and wriggled around the Corrupted’s reptilian snout. Streaming and stretching and flowing, it invaded and filled the beast’s mouth and nose. Sliding and slipping and rushing, it forced its way down into the animal’s lungs.

  “By the way, I don’t bow to any of you little gods. I serve the one true God. The God who kicked your great great grandsssire out of Heaven. The God who sent His Son to let men back in.” Gilm was standing close now, a thick snake of water flowing across his body, from the river to the dragon, a necklace of blue crystals glowing brightly around his Blessed neck.

  For a little bit, steam poured from the dragon’s mouth, as the water kept curling around and flowing down its throat. The dragon coughed and stumbled backward, raggedly clawing at the stream, as if the water were a living snake that could somehow be killed. Then, the steaming and the struggling stopped. Gurgling, choking, and finally collapsing, the dragon drowned on the bank of the river.

  CHAPTER 10 – THE BISHOP’S STORY

  21st of Zeffon, 25th Year, 30th Aion

  Zeffon 21-25ε-30ξς

  Aboard HRHHS Expedient

  Dear Brothers,

  The Pillar of Heaven is the most beautiful city in all the Kosmos! She shines like a beacon in the night, calling all of us to her grandeur and might. The most beautiful bride she makes for our Lord, the Gracious Prince of the Air. I mean no disrespect to our dear Skysend, mother of our youth, of course.

  But, you simply must come and see this city, brothers. I have not even docked yet, we are still a few hours out, but it is beyond what my feeble words can convey. Our Great Prince has constructed a most amazing and beautiful abode for his people. It is just past twilight and all of the lights of the city have been lit. They sparkle like stars, although the great replica of the Argesdoxa atop the great temple in the center outshines them all. To think, I will be basking in that light every day while I am in the city.

  Do not think that I will forget the reasons that you consented to use our resources to obtain for me this opportunity. I am certain to rise quickly within the ranks and every chance I have will be dedicated to working towards both the ends of our Bright and Glorious Lord and the family Ullwitt. We will be doing even better than when Father’s boyhood friend was High Mayor.

  Begåvad, the Bishop of Skysend was about to place the order for overcloaks for the brothers and sisters at the cathedral when I left. Please let me know if there are any problems. That order alone should take care of much of your current inventory. I will keep looking for customers for our drywool. With so many more skyships and their attendant organizations, I’m sure I will find some interested parties.

  Make no worries, Stark, to your interests I will put my best efforts as well. I will do my best to make contacts with military men, or my brothers who are in charge of the Church’s guardsmen. Your captaincy in a skyport’s city guards at your age should speak very well of your abilities, even though Skysend is a smaller port. I will secure you a position where you can do the family proud. Perish the thought, but even if you were to be killed in your first battle, at least you would give us more to be proud of than Vänlig, that wretched traitor. May the Truth strike him down wherever his stinking hide is found.

  Does he not know how hard he is making it for all of us with his foolish choices? If he had just kept it to himself, perhaps we could have found some way to get along. But he was telling other people about it! What a wretched fool we have for a brother. And the eldest, too. Thank goodness we got him struck from the will before Father had that unfortunate accident.

  Let me thank you again for pooling some of your inheritances with mine to help me secure this position. The family Ullwitt will not regret it! We are moving up, brothers.

  Yours faithfully, Ärlig

  Ärlig Ullwitt stepped off the skyship and onto the pier, looking around dumbfounded. Reading books, even seeing paintings, nothing had prepared him for the City Above the Clouds, the Pillar of Heaven. Crowning the top of a more than two-mile-high pillar of stone, much of which was natural mountain, the High City was arrayed on a circular disk of stone that was almost a mile wide. High City was only the name of the specific section of the city found on top of the stone disk. Many people actually made their homes and livelihoods inside the curving bottom of the disk and within the body of the Pillar as well. Of course, the top of the disk was the most sought-after location. It was where the wealthiest and most influential lived, and it was where Ärlig was going to live, at least for a little while.

  By no means did the young Ärlig deserve such an honor on the face of it. However the Church of the Air had its College of Bishops here. It was actually inside the garden-covered artificial hill at the foot of the Prince’s Temple, at the center of the High City. That temple was a grand edifice, shaped like a giant bust of the Prince himself, set atop a circle of pillars and archways that made for a huge open space on the ground floor. The whole temple dominated the entire High City from its perch atop the green garden and grey stone central hill. The College of Bishops was not entirely inside that man-made mount. Doors, windows, and bits of roof poked out from between the beautiful waterfalls, reflecting pools, perfectly placed and shaped rocks, and luscious greenery that covered the Temple’s mount. Not all of these pieces of architecture belonged to the College Ärlig was joining today. The College of Bishops was just one of several different Church organizations to occupy part of that large space inside the Temple of the Prince of the Air.

  Law stated that none of the other very opulent and impressive buildings of the High City were allowed to rise above the height of the Prince’s eyes in the bust that was the top of the temple. None of the other structures even came close to the limit. Perhaps it was just there to remind the other powers and organizations just how far beneath their Divine Lord they really were. Sitting atop its man-crafted mount, the Prince’s temple was almost two hundred paces above the flat disk of the city proper.

  Looking up to the huge but distant stone simulacrum of his Lord and Master, Ärlig felt the flutters of awe and trepidation unsettling his stomach. He had been looking forward to this very moment for years, maneuvering his brothers’ attitudes and the family’s assets just to make it possible. Now, the weight of all the anticipation was gone, replaced by a frightening sense of unease and uncertainty. What was he going to do in this unbelievable city?

  After a few moments of letting his thoughts run wild like the huge mountain sheep his family’s thralls raised near Skysend, a grin spread across his face. He was going to win here. Win and rise up the ranks as high as his talents, abilities, and ruthless self-interest could take him. Of course, he didn’t put it exactly that way in his head, but that was the gist of it.

  “Bishop? Bishop Ullwitt?” came a high-pitched cry from the end of the skyship pier.

  Ärlig spotted the initiate by her pale sky blue robe. She was young and pretty, and to his surprise and satisfaction, she was here for him.

  “I am here to guide you to the College, Father,” she said with a bow of her pretty red head. She was freshly initiated, having only a white dot in the middle of her forehead, nothing as ornate or significant as the painted white eye with embellishments that Ärlig wore.

  The white eye was no low mark within the Church of the Air, though the color showed Ärlig was the lowest rank of Bishop, at the moment. The white eye meant that, if
he successfully navigated the two-year confirmation process here at the College of Bishops, he would receive a blue eye and be placed over a bishopric containing many local parishes or perchance join one of the other Orders of the Church, if he had shown the proper talents and abilities. Ärlig was hoping that he could somehow become a Princept. That Order was mostly reserved for Blessed or Talented members of the Faith. However, they also took a not insignificant number of the faithful who proved themselves through loyal and exceptional service. Massive bribes helped, but were not enough alone. Even then, advancement within the Princepts was based again on service and loyalty to the Prince of the Air and his Church.

  “Thank you, my daughter,” replied Ärlig to the redhead with a slight smirk, as he made the swirling mark of blessing in the air between them. She was only five or six years younger than him, so the traditional form of address for a bishop to another Airian carried a little bit of humor with it in Ärlig’s eyes. Her little giggle in response showed that she understood his look.

  “Shall I see to your things for you, Father? Most bishops are much... more experienced than you and usually need the help, if they haven’t brought any servants with them.” She looked up at him, her bright eyes eager to please.

  “I have plenty of experience, even given my youth. Why don’t you hire a porter with this,” and he handed her a silver obolus stamped with the ram’s head of Skysend. It was a little much for someone to carry his bags, but he acted like he had silver to spare, hoping to impress the redheaded initiate.

  “Certainly, Father,” she said with another little giggle, and she moved off along the stone dock looking for a suitable worker. Meanwhile, Ärlig directed the dock hands to bring his luggage to him once they had unloaded it.