With each stroke to propel him through the water, the urgency of the situation compounded. He knew Gabs’ air had long since been exhausted, and as he pulled himself around yet another corner, all he could do was hope for the best.
After many, many, long moments, Shiver’s eyes located the shadowy forms of Gabs and the bled. Gabs’ body lay limp in the cephalopod’s tentacles, and the beast’s backside was turned in his direction. There were no moments to waste. The bled’s teeth became visible as it adjusted to a more comfortable position from which to feast. A moment later, a long tongue with flesh ripping hooks at its end extended toward the ruby eyed child’s belly.
With all of his might, Shiver pushed off the icy wall behind him. With a slicing blow, he attacked the bled with his knife. The weapon severed the tentacle closest to him, and its blood flowed as the first of the beast’s nine, slimy limbs fell to the cavern floor.
Shiver’s knife quickly found a second target. The blade penetrated one of the beast’s outer eyes before another of the bled’s tentacles was able to seize his hand. With three large suction cups attached to his skin, the pressure built. It felt like Shiver’s flesh was going to be ripped off the bone while the rest of the tentacle rolled up his arm. With the beast tightening its grip, the blue of Shiver’s skin on his right arm faded from lack of circulation as his knife fell to the cavern floor. A moment later, three more powerful tentacles enveloped his waist and latched on.
Shiver screamed. The bubbles produced by his cry rose from his mouth and rolled along the ceiling of the cavern before they popped.
The City of Hydroth
The Great Underhall of Ice
Fellow soul ... a quick note … the Great Underhall was located deep beneath the surface of the Isorian people’s frigid lands at the center of Hydroth, not far from the late king’s undercastle.
With this known, allow me to tell you more about Shamand. A strong, elderly male, Shamand’s short, white hair was often covered by the hood of his cloak. His face carried the scars of a seasoned warrior and the wrinkles of an overprotective father. He was the type of Isorian who worried about preserving the innocence of his daughter—a daughter who, unbeknownst to her, was to have her hand offered to the future prince of the Isorian people—Shiver—if the boy so desired.
Shamand’s nose bore the remains of a scar, compliments of a nasty break he suffered while saving his wife from drowning. You see, it was during the Great Thaw when the water broke through the walls of Shamand’s home and threatened to end his mate. It was on that Peak that Shamand’s mettle was tested. He shielded his wife from harm as a large piece of ice fell from the ceiling of his abode and crushed the bridge of his nose, nearly knocking him unconscious. But Shamand’s resilience was stronger than the ice and the raging water that poured into his home. As a result of his heroics, Herlesda, his devoted wife of 527 seasons, was pulled to safety, and many seasons later, she was able to give birth to Clandestiny before losing her life during childbirth.
The effect of the break to Shamand’s nose became his Achilles Heel. His vision deteriorated since that Peak, and with his eyes becoming useless, his role within the Isorian army was forced to change. He would assume the position of advisor to the future king, a duty that was scheduled to commence once the coronation of the new sovereign occurred.
Despite Shamand’s desire to command the army as its Frigid Commander, he planned to step down to embrace his new position with humility, all the while running into walls as the further progression of his blindness continued to take what was left of his sight.
Shamand entered the Great Underhall with his guide, Doejess. The future advisor hummed a familiar beat that helped him mark the perfect moments in which to lower his feet onto the steps that descended toward the stage.
Doejess whispered into Shamand’s ear. “My Liege, the steps leading up to the stage begin in 20 paces. Lord Thoomar stands waiting beyond, not far to your left.”
Shamand returned a whisper of his own. “Thank you, Doejess.” The elderly warrior lifted his eyes in the general direction of his friend. “Thoomar!” he called out. “My eyes find joy in seeing you, old friend. You appear fit and ready to fulfill your duties as sovereign of our great kingdom.”
Thoomar rolled his eyes that were hooded by thick, milky brows. “Who are you jesting, Shamand? Your eyes fail to see the glory of a face that rests upon a body that was sculpted by the gods.” Thoomar allowed his grin to go uncovered as he moved his powerful frame across the stage to adjust the chairs spanning its width.
Shamand pulled his arm free of Doejess’ grip and then ascended the stairs of the stage while he rebutted. “Even in blindness, my eyes are incapable of forgetting the tragedy the gods placed upon your shoulders. I still see you, old friend.”
Thoomar could only smile as Shamand crested the final step, but as Shamand approached the first chair, a look of concern appeared on the future king’s face. “Bumps! Bumps, beware! The chair blocks your path.”
Shamand’s shin caught the edge of the icy seat, stained red to define its shape. He groaned as he lowered to rub away the pain, only to bump his head on the chair’s arm that had been covered with a thin padding.
With his friend groaning in pain, Thoomar rushed across the stage and assisted Bumps into a seated position.
Shamand cursed his eyes. “Frejet! I would’ve missed this treachery if you hadn’t called me that ludicrous name.” Turning his head in Doejess’ general direction, he shouted at his guide. “What good are you if you cannot keep an old man from hitting inane objects?”
Doejess’ arms extended, seeking forgiveness. “But, My Liege! I—”
Thoomar spoke overtop of Doejess’ nervous response to save the frail-looking Isorian with pale, yellowish-white hair further chastisement. “Ahhh, come on, Bumps. Your blind backside would have hit it anyhow. Many of your moments are spent walking into motionless decor. Besides, we should be celebrating our good fortune, not berating servants. Let us grab a drink. Our nerves beg to be calmed.”
Shamand’s lips pursed. “Perhaps two ales would suffice.”
Thoomar grinned. “Perhaps. But we shouldn’t consume too much. I’d hate to get snocked before the ceremony begins. It wouldn’t be wise to fall like a drunkard on my first Peak as king. It wouldn’t bode well with the clans, agreed?”
“Agreed,” Shamand responded. He stood and fumbled to find the width of Thoomar’s shoulders. “You shall guide me to the dining hall.” Again he turned his head in the direction of Doejess. “It appears my guide is incapable of such transit.”
Doejess cringed.
Squeezing Thoomar’s shoulder, Shamand continued. “I, too, would prefer to stay sober, especially if our ears are to listen to the ruby eyed child sing. I’ve spoken with his father. The blessed one shall most certainly be lifting his voice to the heavens for you tonight.”
Thoomar’s admiration could be heard in his sigh. He often spoke of hearing the ruby eyed child’s songs. “We shall indeed be blessed to savor the boy’s melodies. Thank you for this gift, Bumps. To have the sacred one sing for only me is a dream come true.”
Shamand growled. “Must you always call me that ludicrous name?”
Thoomar reached behind Shamand and squeezed his shoulder. “You know I must, old friend.”
Back at the Swimming Hole
Medolas paced as Clanny stood near the edge of the embankment. With the placement of each foot, the tiny suction cups on the bottom of his feet gripped the ice. They made popping noises as he twisted to walk in the opposite direction. The despair in his voice could be heard as he stopped next to Clandestiny and looked toward the horizon. “I fear the sun is fast becoming our enemy. The Peak will betray us soon.” He looked into the depths of the swimming hole. “We can do nothing. They are lost to us.”
Clanny reached out and grabbed Medolas’ arm. “We should run to the city and find my father.” Her head lowered as she thought of what Shamand’s reaction would be. “My father warned
of the danger. Even the council commanded that we not swim in this hole. Why did we fail to obey?”
Medolas spit in frustration. He watched the brown, mucus-filled saliva fall onto the water and begin to sink. “Your father is going to rip our limbs off our bodies before the council gets the chance to feed us to the gashtion.”
Clanny crouched and grabbed the top of her head. “How do we deliver the news?” She lowered her chin onto her chest. Two blood-filled, yellow tears, one from each cheek, rolled down her face and fell to the ice beside her feet. Upon contact, the droplets froze and left behind two shimmering crystallizations that possessed the brilliance of diamonds.
“I fail to know this answer,” Medolas responded while pulling Clandestiny up to his side. “But if we fail to find your father, the council won’t be able to initiate a search for Shiver and Gabs’ empty vessels.”
Replaying the sound of his words in his head, Medolas swallowed. “Your father is going to be …” He swallowed again. “We best hurry. Evening will be lost to us before our arrival.”
As they ran, the sun abandoned the sky, disappearing below the horizon in the west. What was left of the world of Luvelles to the north and Harvestom to the south also vanished below their respective horizons as the last bit of light across the terrain faded.
Despite the darkness, the children did not slow their sprint toward the city. Their eyes adjusted to the blackness of night, another amazing ability of Isorian people. This ability allowed them to navigate terrain that would have been deadly to any normal man during the estimated series of moments that were known as midnight.
The Isorian Theatre
Later that Same Night
Fellow soul ... the Isorian theatre was also known as the Great Underhall. It was a massive place, and everything that would have normally been made out of various building materials had, instead, been chiseled by hand and sculpted into the shelves of ice that covered the Isorians’ lands.
The balconies high above the stage were shaved to a perfect finish, and a dark-brown stain was applied to the ice to define their curves, much in the same manner that stain would have been applied to a piece of wood on old Earth. Even the seats inside the balconies and on the main floor had been stained bright-red and numbered more than 15,000.
There were only two parts of the structure that were not made of ice. A large, black curtain that draped from one side of a 60 pace long stage to the other, and thick black cushions that were secured to each seat. The cushions were made out of seal hides and stuffed with vestle chick feathers that were imported from Luvelles and Southern Grayham.
The Isorian people filed into the theatre as Shamand stood next to Thoomar behind the heavy curtain that spanned the width of the stage. Bumps was peeking out, despite the fact that he could not see. “Midnight draws near, old friend. Have you seen the children? Their presence should be known to us by now.”
“To my knowledge, the children aren’t present,” Thoomar responded.
Shamand grumbled, “I told Clandestiny that tonight was important. Before she left on her gallivanting this morning, I instructed her not to be late. I should’ve quizzed her for her intended destination.”
The future king put a hand on his future advisor’s shoulder. “I imagine the children will wait until the last possible moment to announce their arrival. You know Shiver loves to try my patience.”
Shamand allowed himself to smile, and then a frown followed. “What of the ruby eyed child? Where is he? I have yet to receive word of his presence from the guards.”
“Figures!” Thoomar grunted. The future king could see the ruby eyed child’s father sitting in the front row next to the stage. “At least the child’s father is here.” After a deep breath, Thoomar pushed his chest forward and forced a smile. “The moment has come, Bumps. We must proceed with the ceremony. Let’s hope the children arrive prior to its completion.”
Thoomar’s dark-blue skin and short, white hair complemented his white robe that was trimmed in yellow. His strong, gray eyes showed his irritation as he made his next statement. “For their sakes, they best make themselves known before I finish addressing the crowd.” The future thumped his fists together to symbolize his desire to troblet the children.
Despite his inability to see Thoomar’s actions, he could feel the intensity of his friend’s frustration. The advisor smiled and then snapped his fingers. Two Isorian boys entered from the wings of the stage carrying his ceremonial garb. After donning his robe that was made of a thin, green material that allowed the chill of the theatre to penetrate to his skin, the future king motioned that he was ready.
As the curtain parted, the people stopped visiting and rushed to take their seats. Shamand, also the leader of the Ged Clan, took center stage with Doejess’ assistance to ensure his lack of sight would not cause him to accidentally stumble and fall off the stage into the crowd.
The podium the advisor stood behind had been stained red. Shamand placed his hands on either side of it and waited for the people to settle. When they did, he lifted his hands toward the ceiling and opened the ceremony with a prayer. “Lord Helmep ... hear us ... your loyal followers who serve you with unyielding faith!”
The prayer continued for many long moments before Shamand ended it with the following. “...My Lord ... the Peak has come to announce our new sovereign! I ask that you guide this Isorian, a man who has been chosen by the Council of the Seven ... a man who steps forward to lead the Isor! We ask that your wisdom be bestowed upon him as our kingdom moves into unexplored Peaks!”
Shamand lowered his hands and allowed his blind eyes to pass across the crowd as if he could see. A broad smile followed as he continued to address them. “I know those present have gathered because we have longed for this Peak! For most, the decision made by the Council of the Seven will come as no surprise! To delay the revelation of our new sovereign would be cruel, so I shall deliver him unto you now! Our new king ... shall be—”
Before the future advisor could speak Thoomar’s name, the door at the back of the theatre burst open. Its handle, stained black, shattered as it hit the wall. Medolas scanned the crowd as the chunks of ice rolled beneath the door and stopped next to his left foot. The boy looked down the steps toward the stage and shouted, “Shiver and the ruby eyed child have been lost in the depths of the swimming hole! They’ve been slain by the bled!”
The theatre erupted with a thousand questions as Thoomar stood from his chair. He rushed past Shamand, leapt from the stage and then ran up the long flight of stairs. Grabbing Medolas by the back of his arm, the future king motioned for the guards to follow and then tossed Medolas over his right shoulder. As they ascended to the surface, the future king shouted over his opposite shoulder in the direction of the Frigid Commander of the Isorian army! “See to it that my wife follows!”
After exiting the hole that led up and out of the undertheatre, Thoomar dropped Medolas from his shoulder. To ensure the younger Isorian did not fall behind, Thoomar drug Medolas across the ice toward another hole and threw him in, head first. Listening to the boy’s cries, Thoomar dove in and followed Medolas as they dropped back into the depths of the shelf. Their descent stopped only after they slid into the understables that housed the mounts of the army.
Before Medolas had the chance to survey his surroundings, he found himself being thrown up and onto the back of Thoomar’s harugen, an abominable giant, white, fur-covered, centipede-looking creature. Medolas’ legs split as his backside came to rest on a padded saddle that was made of leather and conformed to the length of the first seven segments of the beast’s back.
Without wasting another moment, Thoomar removed his ceremonial garb, tossed it to the ice and then backed away from the harugen. After a quick whistle, the beast extended one of its legs and formed a step. Since mounting the beast required a running start, three large strides were taken before Thoomar jumped into the air. His right foot grabbed hold of a fur-covered bone that protruded from the creature’s leg. The f
uture king’s muscles rippled as his leg uncoiled to launch himself toward a familiar spot near the head of the beast.
Medolas watched in amazement as Thoomar landed on the harugen’s saddle in front of him. But before he could say anything, the future king looked over his shoulder. “Tie yourself in! Make haste, Medolas!”
Grabbing the harugen’s reins, Thoomar barked an order. The creature began to skitter toward a large opening that led up and out of the understables. The mammoth’s legs scurried back and forth with great velocity as the point at the ends of its legs dug into the ice and sent chunks sliding back into the depths toward the stables.
Medolas had never been this close to one of the army’s mounts before, and since this was his first experience sitting on the back of one, Thoomar’s shouting about how much trouble he and Clandestiny were in went in one of his blue ears and out the other. Despite the trouble ahead, Medolas could only marvel as the speed of the harugen increased. The terrain became a blur beneath them as Medolas thought, How can so many legs move without tripping over one another?
Fellow soul … as with most harugens, this creature’s body had 25 segments and a pair of legs that protruded from each segment on either side. Medolas knew from his studies in gedwesh, or if you prefer an easier name—school—most adult harugens stopped growing once they reached 22 paces in length. They were not considered aggressive creatures, yet despite their gentle nature, Medolas also knew that there had been many incidents in which harugen riders were squashed beneath the creature’s weight—a punishment for not paying attention while tending to the beast.
It was not long before Thoomar commanded the beast to stop. He dismounted, using one of the harugen’s legs on the opposite side, and then hurried toward the banks of the swimming hole. With eyes filled with stress, the future king looked into the depths of the water. “Medolas! Is this the proper hole?”
The Tear of Gramal Page 3
