The Vitalis Chronicles: Tomb of the Relequim

by Jay Swanson

  “You didn't think it was a good idea?”

  “I don' know, lad.” He shrugged as he thought about it. “They were certainly helpful. The Magi finished makin' 'em just in time, 'bout when the cliffs were raised for the Great Defense. We might'a been lost without 'em.”

  “But...”

  “But they should've sought help from the Creator. Lookin' back is always clear skies, lad, while the seas ahead is covered in storm. But they should've known better, 'specially the Bein'. Some say it were his own pride that got in the way, that he was headed the same way as the Demon. But that's all hearsay and speculation. I think he was just desperate.”

  “So if there wasn't a human army at the time, how did you get involved?”

  “Ho lad! There was an army! Not a good one mind you, but we formed up as best we could manage. The Magi declared it important we learn how to defend ourselves. Elandir put up the largest numbers 'n money. But the rest contributed some as well. In any case, the Magi were unwillin' to risk our lives if they could help it. So they sent the Shadow to the front lines of the defense. They were apt fighters, the Shadow Warriors, but initially they died by the hundreds. Didn't know how to properly handle themselves.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Oh, I don't know lad. Somewhere around three thousand. There was a finite number created; they weren't given the gift o' life.”

  “They couldn't make more of themselves? Like... shadow babies?”

  The Fisherman laughed at that. “Shadow babies? That's a right terrifyin' thought. Nah lad, they couldn't. And more importantly, they had no spirit to speak of. Nothin' to connect 'em to the Creator.”

  “So if they died...”

  “They just float around! Like ghosts that can't see nor touch nor taste a thing. They may be nearby as we speak. Once unhooked from their physical presence, they just wander 'round, waitin' to be called to a new connection.”

  “The Shadow King... that's why he's looking for the Magi. For power.”

  “Aye, he wants to bring back his lads, and there ain't enough Magi left to do it.”

  “Could... could I?”

  “Don't reckon I know lad, but I suspect not. No single Mage had the power to carry out the task. I've never seen it done with fewer than three, even when Charsi was around. After the repulsion of the Black Ships' invasion on the Continent, it took a long time to rebuild the Shadow army. Almost as long as it took to create them in the first place.”

  “Why doesn't the Shadow King just get the Greater Being to bring them back, then?”

  “That there's a question you'd have to take up with the Bein' yourself. But I reckon he, er... she's not too keen on that mistake. It led to her own fall from grace in some ways, and I don't think she'll ever help him. 'Specially after all that's happened since.”

  “Since the war?”

  “Since the Purge, lad. But that's a differen' story! Stop distractin' me!” He laughed. “I joined up to learn to fight, and when the Magi sailed for Grandia they took two battalions of us along with them. Green we were, fresh as young minnows and twice as naïve.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “We got slaughtered, lad. The Magi turned their gaze from us for two minutes and half of us got wiped out.”

  They sat in silence for a while, the Fisherman's stare turned blank at the memory. Eventually Ardin ventured to ask how it had happened. His father had never told him any of his own stories from serving in the military, and he had regretted not having pushed for them every day since.

  “Dragons, lad. The first time we'd ever seen anythin' like it.” He shook his head slowly and looked at Ardin.

  “The old Demon had been hard at work, makin' new and horrifyin' monsters that none had even heard rumor of in nightmares. The Demon looks nothin' like a dragon himself, but they share the same ugly thirst for blood. We'll call him a dragon for it from time to time. The creatures he threw at us in his invasion were brutal; they lusted for death.” He turned away again. “These were a different breed all together.”

  The Fisherman stared out into the ocean, looking back on memories he wished he didn't have. “I was in the half that was left untouched. The other battalion... poor bastards got ripped to shreds. You'll find few terrors to match those beasts in this world.”

  “I've seen them; they're horrifying.”

  “Nah lad, you've only seen the whelps. The blue ones?”

  Ardin nodded.

  “Aye, that's what you'd said. No, there are two other types of dragons lad, most easily told by their color. The reddish ones are big, bigger than anythin' you'll ever see. But they're rare, and right moody. They only bothered us once, and they're more concerned with saving their own scaly hides than obeyin' their master. He doesn't take to breedin' them any more.”

  “What are the other ones?”

  “Black, or 'onyx' dragons. They're the bastards that tore us up. They're still big; not as big as the red buggers, but they're fast. And what's worse, they're aggressive as a bear bitch in heat. Their scales are made of some horrid metallic substance. The beaut' with dragons is each has a strength, and a related weakness. The blue dragons are water fowl, easily scared off by flames not their own. The red dragons were shooed off by the Magi's ability to conjure up various spells of ice and water.”

  He smiled faintly. “In reality lad, these things just scare the beasts. To put one down takes an excellent shot with a more powerful weapon or stroke of magic than can easily be produced.

  “But the onyx dragons, those bastards don't fear none o' that. It takes lightnin', electricity, and a brutal amount at that, to come so close as to discourage them. And I ain't never seen it done but once.”

  “Is that what you did?”

  The old man laughed at the question.

  “No lad, not I. I was but a boy then, wettin' my trousers at the mere mention of snakes let alone dragons! No, but the Magi figured it out. Not before losing a good many men to the beasts though. The thing is, Ardin, you can't bring metal weapons to the fight with them. They turned what we called artillery then against us, used it as their canvas to paint our carnage. They ain't to be trifled with lad, so unless you can conjure up a mighty storm, we'll be hidin' if e’er we see one.”

  “They used your artillery against you?”

  The Fisherman didn't answer for a long time. He just rubbed his beard and maintained his staring contest with the waves. After a while he put his hand down and closed his eyes.

  “They come in pairs or packs of three. Dark, broodin' creatures they are, but ne'er solitary. We was on the hills up north, just west o' the jungles near White Shores. We'd held off a counter assault by the Demon's army and were feeling pretty damn good about ourselves.

  “'Bout the time we'd finished cheerin' and mockin' the enemy's retreat, one of me mates pointed somethin' out on the horizon.

  “We couldn't see 'em so we poked fun at him. Paranoid we called him; but then I saw 'em too. Others started seein'em; black specks what looked like birds flyin' towards us. Only they got bigger, and bigger, till we knew they weren't no bloody birds. They veered to the south, towards the other battalion. They closed fast.

  “The Magi were movin' north to join us in the battle. They thought the main fight would be farther south, so that was where they had put the Shadow. Little of the fight had shifted north durin' the battle itself, so when the dragons came they had to adjust their deployment. But they were too late...

  “There was no one there to save those men, no one there to put up a real fight. The first dragon simply passed overhead. The men had never seen anythin' like it. They yelped and dove fer cover, but all the beast did did was cough up a glob of black... tar lookin' stuff anyways.

  “It struck a cannon dead on. This was back before true war machines had been developed, mind you. These guns pretty much shot large balls of iron and were far from accurate.

  “The glob of black grew on it, throbbing and glowing as little bolts of what looked like purpl
e lightning ran along it. Pulsin', writhin'... growin'. We could barely see it but one of the men that survived told the details later. He said some gathered 'round it to watch out of a morbid curiosity. The dragon had flown out and away, circlin' wide, leavin'em alone.

  “As for the tar, it consumed the canon, all nine feet of its iron casing. In a matter of minutes, out of it came a smaller version of the bastard that had puked it up. It tore the tar from it like a newborn pup and thrashed about, gainin' strength as the men shot at it.

  “It tore them up lad. Killed dozens before it took to the sky and started attackin' 'em from above. The others joined it then, breathin' a black fire like nothin' I never seen. It was infused with a broilin' purple lightnin'; men burned and smoked and died and never so much as caught fire.”

  He fell silent again, long enough that Ardin was unsure if he would continue.

  “The Magi, they rushed to help, but were too late.” He looked back up. “The battalion was gone, five thousand men dead 'n gone. The dragons ate or burned the lot of 'em, tore 'em to shreds. They would have come for us too if not for the sheer force of magic the Magi used in retaliation. They were furious, the Magi. Furious that they had failed in their charge to keep those men safe; they took it upon themselves to kill those bloody dragons.”

  He looked at Ardin.

  “They got two of them over the next four days, and lost four of their own in the process. Caspian called off the chase for fear of worse casualties. But they never forgot that encounter. And neither have I, lad. Neither have I.”

  ELEVEN

  POMPIDUS MERODACH LAID HIS CANE AGAINST THE TABLE THAT STOOD NEXT TO HIS BED. He pulled his dead leg up. His pudgy face contorted against the pain as he sat himself up against the wall. He had lost a fair bit of weight since his encounter with the Shadow King, though by looking at his face you wouldn't have known. He didn't look any better for it. He looked used up.

  If he was sick of anything it was being cooped up, left in the dark. He didn't really know what was going on outside or how the city was faring without him. They brought him regular reports. Falsified reports he was certain. He was even more certain now that his instructions were no longer being carried out. It made the Mayor angry to know he was being disregarded. He hated the idea that he was inconsequential.

  “Feeling any better today?” The doctor walked into the room, only half paying attention as he continued to read the charts on his clipboard.

  “Go to hell, doc.”

  “I've been wondering where your spark for life had gone.” The doctor smiled and hung the clipboard at the foot of the bed. “Looks like you're getting it back.”

  “When are you gonna let me out of here?”

  “When are you going to stop asking me that?”

  Pompidus' face flushed in anger. He folded his arms and grunted while the doctor sat on a stool by the bed and started prodding his useless leg. His grunts turned to grimaces as the instruments got closer to the location of the wound.

  “It still hasn't healed entirely, has it?”

  “You tell me, doc. I'm not the one being paid to keep me on the mend.”

  The doctor stood and put away his instruments. “I would take it as an insult that you would think like that if I didn't know what state you were in. I'm trying to get you healthy, not keep you from it.” He produced a small cup with some colorful pills that he held out to his patient.

  “What're these?”

  “New antibiotics, the ones you've been taking are losing their effectiveness.”

  “It would help if you had an idea of what you were doing.”

  The doctor pushed his glasses up and stared at the Mayor until he obliged and took the pills.

  “You'll be happy to know they've allowed you a visitor.”

  “You know what would make me happy? My damned office.” Merodach choked down some of the stale water sitting by his bed. The pills were huge. They felt like they were taking an alternate route and trying to break free through his larynx rather than face the torture of his belly. “Who the hell are 'they' anyways?”

  The doctor didn't say anything as he took the cup back.

  “You'd better start talking, doc.” The Mayor was practically growling now. “I rarely forget my friends, but I never forget my enemies.”

  The doctor turned to leave, pushing the stool back under the bed and walking towards the door. “Your paranoia is as worrying as that infection.”

  And with that he was gone. Merodach lowered himself onto his bed and rolled over to face the wall with a frown. He hated being quarantined like this. He wanted his power back; he wanted respect. The idea that Silvers might come back for him did manage to temper his haste, however. But the longer he stayed here, the worse things would be for him when he got out. He couldn't even be sure how long he had been here. Time had blended into an eternity of white walls and colorful pills. Some days his anger and ambition flared to life. Other days he dwelled on taking his own.

  He had woken up down here, and though he had tried to escape on numerous occasions, his lack of strength always undid him. That and the fact that he was certain he was on a sub-level of the Southern Tower. There would be no escaping without help, he had realized. And there was no one around willing to risk their necks and do just that.

  “This fat bugger's who we's lookin' for then, hey?”

  “Guess so.”

  Merodach kept facing the wall. Whoever the hell they might be they certainly weren't from the military. They didn't even sound Elandrian.

  “Oi, you. Wadsworth. Roll over.”

  “Maybe he's sleepin'?”

  “Maybe he's gots you fooled, hey?”

  “Shut up, he's all sick like. Sweatin'n quiverin'.”

  “Don't mean he's sleepin.”

  Pompidus could barely stand to listen to them go on. “What the hell are you here for already?”

  “Oi! You 'ear that? 'E's plenty awake then.”

  “So he is. You Pompotius Mer... Mera– ”

  “Pompidus Merodach. Of course I am!” He rolled over to face them. “What kind of idiots are you? I'm the only damn person down here!”

  Two big, square-shouldered men stood facing him. Each was dressed well but looked completely uncomfortable, like dogs in their owners' finest suits. As out of place as the clothes made them look, they seemed overly confident to be dealing with someone like Merodach.

  “Oi, right temper he's got.”

  “Aye, right testy.”

  “Who are you?” Merodach barked.

  “He's curious though.”

  “Like a rat.”

  “Cat.”

  “What?”

  “Cat. It's curious as a cat, you bloat.”

  Merodach almost exploded at the exchange. “Who the hell are you?”

  They turned from each other to face the pallid man on the bed before them. The less brutish one of the two spoke up.

  “Name's Bill, this 'ere's Clive. We's 'ere to make sure you gets back on the ol' 'orse.”

  THE SEA HAD PROVED FAR LESS CHOPPY IN THE PAST FEW DAYS, AND THOUGH IT REMAINED IMMUTABLY GRAY, ARDIN FELT HIS STRENGTH RETURNING. Even though he didn't feel so bad any more, he thought he would never find his sea legs. He was certainly gaining no love of life on the open ocean.

  The Fisherman, on the other hand, seemed disappointed at the lack of spirit the waves had been showing. He never grinned so broad as when they listed upwards of twenty degrees. Ardin couldn't be certain, however, as he'd rarely witnessed it. Those were the occasions he was busy lying on his back or being tossed about the ship. When the ocean was relatively calm, the Fisherman would get bored and tie off the wheel. It made Ardin nervous to see the Fisherman wander off from the bridge, but he supposed the old man knew what he was doing.

  “Do you know about magic?” Ardin asked while playing absentmindedly with his bread one morning. “I always wanted to learn about it. I mean, before I actually could use it.”

  It was the first meal he had
been able to keep down in two days. He still didn't have much of an appetite, but the Fisherman insisted.

  “Not much, lad, no. I can sense it, sure. I can tell ya when it's present and how strong it is, but that's about it these days.”

  “You can't manipulate the Atmosphere?”

  “You think I can?”

  “Somehow I would be surprised if you couldn't.”

  The Fisherman laughed at that. “You have a mighty high view of me then. But yes, I can pull a few tricks when I needs 'em. I still couldn'a tell you much about it though. It's more an art than a science to me. That's magic though. If I understood how it worked, it wouldn'a be magic no more, would it?”

  “Did the Magi understand it?”

  “Aye, lad. That's why they didn'a call it magic. Jus' us ignorants that do that. But what fun is a world without a little magic?” He put down his mug and waited for Ardin to look him in the eyes. “You feel like you're gettin' a feel for it?”

  “Yes and no.” Ardin looked down at his food. “I don't really know how to use it, but when I call, it's always there. Always ready. In that way I guess I'm learning more; I've been working at it. I'm just... I guess I'm just scared of what will happen if...” He trailed off as he put the hunk of bread back on his plate.

  “You'll do fine lad, I promise.” He took a swig of coffee, thick and black as the leather of his belt. “You won't end up like Charsi.”

  “I already have...”

  They sat there in silence as the deep rattling hum of the boat's engine droned on. It pressed them into and over the low swells that rolled lazily on for what seemed like forever.

  “There's a blessed grace in this life, lad.”

  Ardin looked up. The Fisherman seemed to be staring off into the distance from inside their boat. Into his own past or perhaps somewhere beyond.

  “We all crave redemption. Whether or not we're ready to admit it.” He smiled his kindly smile and looked back at Ardin. “Thankfully, it's extended to us more often than we deserve.”