by Dorian Hart
Ernie was still awake, talking animatedly about his high-flying adventures with several refugees from the next campfire over. She was decidedly proud of the young man and hoped his achievement would burn off some of his excess humility.
Off by themselves sat the Stormknights Sorent and Veloun, faces etched with grief, journeying to Hae Kalkas to make their report to the Werthan church. The horrors they had described, climbing and hacking their way through a nightmare of blood, flesh, and slime, were difficult to imagine. And Corlea Turtlebane, who by their accounts had done the lion’s share of critical damage to the Ventifact Colossus’s brain, had either suffocated or drowned deep in the turtle’s head.
The plan was for Aravia to teleport Horn’s Company the next morning back to the Greenhouse, where they hoped Abernathy would have recovered. Now that the various prophecies had come true, was the Kivian Arch open? If not, what was there to be done? And if so, how would they get through it to find the Crosser’s Maze?
In the meantime Morningstar needed to sleep, and though it felt blasphemous, she hoped her avatar would give her respite from their training sessions. She also hoped, fervently, that Aktallian would not visit her dreams. Though his fall should have been fatal, his body had apparently vanished. She couldn’t be sure if he was dead, but she knew she was so very tired.
Morningstar hides in a forest thicket, watching the stone arch of Seablade Point pulse with a ruddy opaque luminance. A great noise comes from beyond that impenetrable glow, as if legions of warriors are clashing swords against shields and bellowing war cries in a foreign tongue.
The trees of the forest begin to uproot themselves, first singly and then in scores, shooting into the air like fireworks and exploding in balls of orange flame. In minutes the forest has become a clearing, excepting only the little cluster of elms that hides her.
The red glow vanishes from the arch, and now looking at it is like gazing through a picture window into another world. The land beyond is rocky and blanketed with snow. It is also covered with an army, a forest of tents and pennants. Smells of urine, horses, and cooking fires waft out.
A tall figure strides through the arch, passing seamlessly from the snowy realm to the cleared-away forest, a man with red hair and a warrior’s bearing. He dusts some snow from his pauldrons, smiles with satisfaction, and scoops up a handful of soil from the ground, rubbing it between his fingers.
As soldiers begin to pour through from behind him, Morningstar’s viewpoint shifts, zooming through the archway, then rising, a bird’s-eye view of an eagle in flight, but faster, ever faster, streaking over and across an unfamiliar countryside. This new land is massive, many times larger than all of Charagan, and over a thousand varied miles pass beneath her, forests and mountain ranges, rocky plains and vast grasslands, and finally a dense jungle.
She looks up to the western horizon, and there is no sky. There is only an impossible iron wall, detailed with a complex pattern that resolves itself as she shoots towards it, and Morningstar realizes that her perspective is wrong; she is not flying toward something distant, but falling into it. She is plummeting, ever faster, into an infinite metal labyrinth.
She woke with a cry and sat up. Her friends stirred, roused from slumber by her shout, though it was still the dead of night. Kibi raised himself to his elbows.
“You okay there?” he asked. “Bad dream?”
“The Crosser’s Maze,” she whispered. “I know where it is.”
EPILOGUE
Grey Wolf didn’t puke, but Gods, he wanted to. The painful nausea had spiked, badly; he wouldn’t have been surprised had he launched his stomach straight out of his throat. But on his hands and knees, he noticed that the ground had changed. It wasn’t a planked ship’s hold, which it should have been. Now it was beige marble, clean enough to show him his own blurry reflection.
It was warmer, too. He lifted his head—slowly, slowly, Gods, what a headache. Not more than twenty feet away, seated upon a massive stone chair, was a twelve foot tall purple-skinned being, human in shape, proportion, and features, bedecked in shining black armor. By his side, dwarfed by his immensity, stood a black-haired woman, human, also in armor, though hers was as red as blood.
There were others in the throne room as well, courtiers, guardsmen, and servants, all of them quiet, all of them staring at him. A dozen men bearing pikes lowered their points, making Grey Wolf the center of a wheel with sharp metal spokes.
“Let him be.”
The voice of the purple-skinned sovereign was silk and steel. The guards raised their pikes and stepped back.
“My friends,” said the sovereign, addressing his court, “do not be concerned with our visitor. His arrival was inevitable and a harbinger of our release.”
He gestured to Grey Wolf. “Ivellios Forrester, come forward, as far as you are able. I wish to look upon you.”
Grey Wolf shook his head, desperately wishing this was a fever-dream but knowing it was not.
“I can guess who you are,” he said. “Emperor Naradawk.”
The emperor nodded. “I said come forward. Do not worry. I will not harm you. I swear upon the Circle, that’s the last thing I desire.”
Grey Wolf took a step toward Naradawk. No one had disarmed him. If he moved close enough, he might be able to take this…thing…by surprise. Yes, Abernathy had told how even the mightiest wizards of the Spire couldn’t kill this being’s father, but who could say if the son was as impervious? Since he doubted Naradawk’s words and figured he’d be dead either way in the next five minutes, he could at least go down fighting. But he would be cagey, deferential to this monster, until he was within striking distance. You didn’t survive twenty years as a sell sword without a store of guile.
He took a second step, and that was harder. Something was radiating out from Naradawk, a hot, greasy force that pushed back on him like a headwind. There was nothing visible, but it was strong and sapped his will. Still a dozen feet from the throne, he could go no further. It felt as though his skin were burning, like Naradawk was a bonfire whose fuel was unalloyed malice.
The emperor turned to the woman at his side. “Meledien, this is Ivellios Forrester, the one the ritualists have told us about. As the time draws near, he will become unanchored more and more frequently, until the final moment when he is part of Spira and Volpos together. This won’t be his last visit. Are you prepared, Ivellios?”
Volpos? That sounded familiar. Was it something Abernathy had mentioned?
He strained to move closer to Naradawk, but it was futile. Whether it was Naradawk’s will or something inherent to the emperor’s being, Grey Wolf thought he would burst into flames if he managed to struggle any farther forward.
That left only defiance. “I’m prepared to fight you,” he spat.
A shocked murmur spread through the crowd of courtiers. Naradawk sat up straight in his throne, looking…surprised?
“Have you not been made ready for your sacrifice, Ivellios?”
Having no idea what the emperor was talking about, Grey Wolf just stared back.
“You haven’t, have you?” Naradawk showed a smile full of dark gray teeth. “You’re running loose on Spira with no idea of your importance.”
“He knows who you are, my Lord,” said the woman in red armor, the one the Emperor called Meledien. “He may even have been warned by the Spire.”
“Let’s find out.”
Naradawk hardened his stare. Grey Wolf felt as though a fist had been jammed into his head, and this time he did puke, falling to his knees and splattering the marble tiles, drawing a titter of disgust from the courtiers. It was a horrible sensation, Naradawk rooting around in his memories, roughly, like a burglar turning out drawers and knocking over tables looking for valuables. His mind burned with anger and frustration. This purple monstrosity was reading his thoughts, and he was helpless to stop it.
After a torturous minute of this treatment Naradawk released him, leaving him coughing up droplets of bile.
“Interesting,” said the monster. “The Spire has been disbanded. There’s just the small cadre of wizards who are attending to the portal. They know I’m coming, but they don’t know how. They don’t know how to stop me. Ivellios here was hired by one of them to try figuring things out, but his team is a bunch of bumbling amateurs, one of whom has already been killed by our skellari. Their only plan is to use something called the Crosser’s Maze, but Ivellios thinks that’s an impossible long shot. They don’t know what it is, or where it is.”
“But Lord,” said Meledien, “if their wizards don’t know why Ivellios is important, why did they choose him from among all the people on Spira? That cannot be a coincidence.”
“I don’t know,” said Naradawk, frowning. “He and his associates were summoned by Alander’s apprentice, a wizard named Abernathy, but Abernathy himself claims not to know why his summoning spell chose them specifically. He could be lying to his slaves, but Ivellios here is convinced otherwise. Either way, Ivellios is entirely ignorant of his role in my plans.”
Grey Wolf lifted his head from the floor to regard his captor. “And what are your plans?”
Naradawk smiled. “I and my armies are going to take back Spira, and you are the means by which it will happen. You’ll serve your purpose as the place in common, scion of Moirel.”
“Scion of Moirel? Place in common? What does that mean? Why aren’t you just killing me?”
“Ah, Ivellios. I am not going to kill you because if you die here, I would have no way to return your body to Spira where it will be needed. No, like everyone else on your benighted world, you get to live a little while longer.”
Naradawk leaned forward on his throne, and the invisible waves of pure repulsion caused Grey Wolf to slide backward a few inches on the marble tiles.
“But just a little.”
Grey Wolf’s stared into Naradawk’s eyes.
Typical villain. Can’t help but blab about your plans. So, if I die here, your master strategy is screwed? Easy enough to arrange, you arrogant purple monstrosity.
“You’ll never see my world,” he said. He struggled to his feet and drew his sword. “Not after I’ve lopped off that oversized eggplant head of yours.”
Meledien made a move toward him, but Naradawk put out a hand to check her.
“You cannot even approach me,” the emperor said, smiling. “Let alone lift a finger to harm me. I admire your fighting spirit, but you are fooling no one.”
“I’m not?” Grey Wolf quickly flipped his wrist and extended his arm, so that the point of his sword touched his chest. He put his other hand on the hilt as well and drove the blade point-first into his own heart.
Or, rather, he meant to. He really did. He even thought he had, for just a second. But, no, the sword had not moved.
“No, you’re not,” said Naradawk. “How charming, that you imagined I would let you end your own life.”
Grey Wolf didn’t feel paralyzed. There was nothing wrong with his body, save that it was now responding to Naradawk’s demands and not his own. This monster was dominating his mind, as surely as a puppeteer controlled his puppets.
“Ivellios, please. You’re not going to remember any of this when you return because I am going to erase it from your mind. But be assured, I will leave the rest of your memories intact. It’s just as well that Abernathy not discover your brain has been tampered with.”
This was worse than when his memories had been looted. He knew for a surety that if Naradawk wanted him to commit murder, or slit his own throat, or debase himself in the worst ways imaginable, he wouldn’t even hesitate.
He grew faint, and the throne room took on a strange amber glow.
“He’s fading,” said Meledien. “Returning to Spira.”
“Then I’d best cleanse him,” said Naradawk. A sickening agony gripped Grey Wolf as Naradawk shredded his memories of the past few minutes, like a clawed beast tearing strips of flesh from its prey. He tried to focus on the emperor, tried to at least remember what he looked like…and then there was something strange.
“What’s the matter?” said Meledien.
“His memories,” said Naradawk. All light was fading now, and in Grey Wolf’s guts was that nauseating sensation of tugging. “He knew these things before! Someone has already erased—”
* * *
The throne room was gone. Grey Wolf was on his knees, bathed in moonlight. The night was cool and dry, the sawgrass whispering in the breeze and gently brushing his face. Above and around him towered the ring of great black obelisks, the Seven Mirrors.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First and foremost I wish to thank my wife, Kate Jenkins, for her unwavering support, insightful criticisms, and all the wonderful conversations we’ve shared about the story. As with all good things in my life, this book would not exist without her.
My children, Elanor and Kira, listened intently to the whole book and never tired of telling me how great it was. While their opinions may have held a slight bias in Dad’s favor, they were still nice to hear. Thanks, kids!
Behind every author is an editor who knows better. Mine was the inestimable Abigail Mieko Vargus, whose encyclopedic knowledge and attention to detail are why there are about a thousand fewer problems with the book than there otherwise would have been. I cannot thank her enough though I’m surely going to try.
I employed a small army of beta readers, all of whom offered insights, suggestions, and support in varying degrees. At the top of the list is Edward Aubry, who bludgeoned me relentlessly with his merciless wisdom. I needed every kick he delivered to my authorial rear end. Just below Ed on the pyramid are Adi Rule, who overturned upon my head a necessary bucket of cold water after a very early draft; Alexander Hart, for whom no detail was too small to notice; and Michael Chaskes, who combined keen observations with exactly the amount of approval I needed to stay energized. Of course, the book would not be the same without the thoughtful input from all of my readers: Jim Blenko, Kit Yona, Benjamin Durbin, Jim Bologna, Christopher Cotton, Jeff Foley, Josh Bluestein, Karen Courtney, Aaron Size, Paul San Clemente, Phil Moriarty, Karen Escovitz, and Andy Cancellieri.
At the end of the process, I employed a slightly smaller battalion of proofreaders, each of whom saved me from profound embarrassment in multiple places. Thank you to Fiona Heckscher, Bob Osborne, Corey Reid, Jeanine Magurshak, Darren Frechette, Christopher Wicke, Anise Strong-Morse, and (again) Alexander Hart.
As I ought to thank anyone without whom this book would not exist, I also extend my gratitude to Steven Cooper, Russell Morrissey, and all of my readers at EN World who told me over and over that I should do this thing.
And, finally, I want to thank my parents, Charlotte and Jacob, who have never stopped blowing wind into my sails.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dorian Hart graduated from Wesleyan University with a degree in creative writing. This led circuitously to a 20-year career as a video game designer, where he contributed to many award-winning titles including Thief, System Shock, System Shock 2, and BioShock. He is also the author of the interactive novella Choice of the Star Captain, published by Choice of Games.
Dorian now lives in the Boston area with his fantastic wife and two clever daughters.
THANK YOU
FOR READING
© 2015 Dorian Hart
For information about the Heroes of Spira series, please visit
http://dorianhart.com/the-heroes-of-spira/
Please consider leaving a review of The Ventifact Colossus on Amazon!
http://amzn.com/B01AC3V8TG
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Cha
pter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
