by Kyle Belote
“Judas Lakayre,” the boy replied.
“Did you meet him?” the kernoyl smiled across the fire.
“Who?” he asked, coming back from the long forgotten memory.
“My grandfather? Scholar Tyku?”
Judas nodded and smiled, but did not elaborate. Instead, he switched the topic from grandfather to father. “Where is your old man?”
“Part of the reserve unit that stayed behind at Ralloc. I’m rather glad about that, too,” the kernoyl added as an afterthought. With another sip of ale, he shook his head. “He likes to be in the midst of things, doing it himself, instead of letting other people do their jobs. A micro-manager and a pain in the ass. You should have seen my childhood. He would have been right there leading the charge down to Xilor, right along with Consul Dathyr.”
Judas smiled to himself at the thought of Kayis Dathyr becoming a symbol–a martyr indubitably. Neither upset nor jealous by this, the men needed a symbol, something to remember.
Someone’s courage.
It pained him that the rallying symbol came at the cost of life.
He found it odd no one admired him for his courage in telling the truth throughout the Ages, though glad for the absent adoration. By defying the government, he made sure to speak the truth to any who would listen, but as a warlock, people didn’t look up to him because of the stigma attached to his title. It made him suspicious as to why the kernoyl spent time trying to befriend him. What was in it for him? As soon as they left Cape Gythmel, he would drop him like a sack of stones unless he missed something.
“So,” the elder grunted, pulling himself out of his reverie, “tell me about yourself.”
The kernoyl glanced up at him, a puzzled look stumbling across his face. “What do you want to know?” he asked. A troubled expression gave away his unease and his voice dripped with wariness.
The warlock conjured a sheet of paper and waved his wand over the parchment which vanished in a bright, quick flame. “Anything. Anything at all.”
Over the next half hour, it became increasingly clear to Judas that Kernoyl Dillon Tyku hid something so significant that the man jumped across subject matter seemingly at random. Several times the kernoyl tried to excuse himself, and each time Judas politely insisted he stay and continue his story.
“Warlock Lakayre, I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to be seen in your company for too long by the men. They might get anxious or nervous.”
“Nonsense!” the elder shrugged off his attempt to leave again. There was a chattering of metal and mail as footsteps approached their fire. The warlock and the kernoyl studied the two newer leftenants walking up. The first stopped short, looked pointedly at Judas, and gave a slight shake of his head.
With a small nod, he spoke authoritatively, “Continue, leftenants.”
The leftenants bowed and began to turn away when the kernoyl’s eyes fell on a small piece of folded paper in the first leftenant’s hand. His eyes quickly shifted back to Judas, unsure what it meant.
“So, tell me, kernoyl, what do you know about me?” the elder hedged, politer than he had spoken to the two junior officers.
The kernoyl’s eyes darted around, noting the warlock doodling in the dirt with his wand, Judas noting his nervousness. “Well … I, uh, that is to say … can, uh …” the kernoyl stammered and stuttered, trying to conjure a complete sentence.
“What’s the matter, Kernoyl? Are you alright?” The man only nodded. “Perhaps you are sick?” Judas suggested. “Here, lie down and let me examine you. Perhaps it is food poisoning?”
“Food poisoning?” Dillon exclaimed. “Do you think it is that? Would someone do that to their senior officer? Perhaps I should visit a Pharmacon mage.”
“Yes, there is a motive for such a thing. Perhaps someone who is jealous of you and your excellent achievements?” He let the sentence hang there for a moment.
“No, I’m sure I am fine. Don’t worry about me.” He waved Judas’s help off.
“Are you sure?” Judas pressed again. “You seem like you are barely–,” he paused, “–holding it together.”
Running footsteps thundered behind them, the two leftenants pulling up short. One spoke to Judas. “We have him.” A roar of anger and frustration leaped from Judas’s fiery innards, and he disappeared in a flashing blue mist, teleporting across the fire, his hand clutching the kernoyl by his throat.
“You,” he growled. “I will ask you again, what do you know about me?” All the breezy nature and informality left his voice and expression. A cold, callous bearing filled his eyes, a faint glimmer of madness. In a fraction of a second, he went from an old man to a battle-hardened warrior.
“That you are going to die,” the kernoyl croaked. Gritting his teeth and letting out a frustrated growl, Judas released the kernoyl and pointed his wand at him. With unspoken words, the end of his tip erupted in a blaze of light. A scream graduated into a howl of pain before giving way to an agonizing moan, a black mist dissolving. One of Xilor’s sheol: a Xicx.
“STAND TO!” the warlock shouted.
In a jumble of motion and sound, bodies arrived at their posts in the well-rehearsed orderly fashion. Within minutes, all men settled into position, armored, and awaiting orders. They knew what hell awaited them, their jobs. Resist, evade, destroy, never stop and don’t die.
Judas waited as the men settled. Absolute stillness descended upon the dying outpost. Then he heard it. They all did.
The first footfalls of the advancing doom.
“Flight one, go!” the warlock urged, and twenty-five battlemages ported away, ripping into the night in a blind race against time and death towards Dlad City, to the north. He just hoped they would get back in time.
Chapter 81 : Cape Gythmel
Xilor sent in a decimating legion of twenty thousand goblins and trolls. The Dark Lord knew anything less would spur Judas to stay; cutting off his options, Judas was left with two choices: flee or die. The Corridor wasn’t Xilor’s objective; his final destination and ambition rest in Ralloc, but if he had to choose between the two, Xilor accepted intent. Unsure of how much Judas managed to figure out, proceeding with caution seemed best as long as the culmination remained a mystery. Xilor dared to hope for a brief moment that Judas believed he wanted only Ralloc. If he controlled Ralloc, he controlled the Realm.
Logical but fallible.
All Domains followed Ralloc–conquer Ralloc, and all would fall. To the south lay the Giem Domain, beyond Marcoalyn and the Melodic Mountains. Giem meant nothing to Xilor. He cared little for its inhabitants. Perhaps, once he controlled the realms, he would return one last time to the cursed place and destroy it. Burn it. Raze it to the ground. The thought gave him pleasure, but he hesitated, noting the significance, the history, a stepping-stone to his power from so long ago. Still, he mustn’t become distracted.
What he desired remained in Ralloc, not the city itself, neither the government or its dignitaries, not the buildings, or the treasure within, nor the vast stores of knowledge lining the shelves. He coveted something far more simplistic in design, and yet far more dangerous than anyone could imagine. Xilor marched to destroy it.
The Mirror of Imation.
Once in his hands, he’d bring back the descendants of those who followed him and once through, destroy the gateway. Those descendants would fulfill the blood oaths their ancestors swore. With their obedience, his quest would be finished.
Judas never realized the folly of his actions in creating the Mirror of Imation. In many ways, it was the twin to the Mirror of Razen, Xilor’s prison for many years. The war he waged would save Ermaeyth and cull the weak. If ever faced with an invasion, any adversary would find them formidable opponents. Totalitarian rule, a by-product of his aims, did not spur his action.
His rambling musings came to a halt, and he turned, regarding the nine that stood before him.
These elyves intrigued Xilor. Skillful, professional, and untraceable, it had taken much of his strength,
resources, and time, to find them. His absence from the battlefield was due to search for them and the fallen angel; the latter eluded his grasp. Now that he had the nine, he would focus all his efforts on the girl Hadius foretold. But the elyves evaded him for nearly three weeks and obtaining their services proved burdensome. Only overt threats spurred their cooperation.
Xilor was ruthless, cutthroat, driven, but not a fool. He threatened for means of compliance. When diplomacy failed, he turned to dark promises and harsh realities, but once he issued a threat, it was damn-near useless to use again.
He had, however, no intentions of keeping his word; he never did. Iddrial and his followers erred by assumption and underestimated his desire for revenge for defying him. He could torture them, but physical pain lasted moments, emotional and psychological scarring lasted forever. To destroy their dreams and hopes, shatter any chance of redemption … it would have to wait.
The weight of their gazes fell on him.
“I am grateful you changed your minds,” the Dark Lord purred. “Your part was a success, but the mission failed as a whole. My Xicx failed me. I am a man of my word; you are free to go.”
Iddrial, the leader, glanced at those in his charge before turning away.
“One more thing,” Xilor called out behind them. Iddrial stopped, turning back. “How is it that you roam undetected, obscured from sight? Better yet, how did nine elyfian smuggle in a Xicx and the warlock was none the wiser?”
“Our agreement was to smuggle in one of your followers, and you would leave the Elyfian Enclave and us alone. Revealing our secrets was never a part of our arrangement. I thought you were a man of your word?” Iddrial countered.
Xilor dipped his head but remained silent. He didn’t trust himself to speak at the moment. The Dark Lord waved them away with a languid shooing motion. The elyves turned their backs, walking away, but Iddrial walked backward, not taking his eyes off Xilor.
Perhaps he isn’t such a fool, after all, Xilor mused.
Xilor watched them go, amused by their audacity, but trembled in anger. The strange elyves with pale amethyst skin defied him again. One of his Xicx failed to kill the warlock as he slept.
The pale horizon to the north reminded him that a new day roused. A faint, lone figure caught his attention against the glowing skyline, a person on horseback, beyond Cape Gythmel. The horse stood motionless, facing the town below and Xilor’s army. A cold chill crept down his spine, a warning. He reached out with his mind, probing the man, finding his essence, but he was not who he expected, he predicted Judas. Satisfied, he withdrew and continued watching his army pour through the walls.
They just breached through the walls when the world erupted in fire and death.
---
Kernoyl Dillon Tyku sat on his horse, gazing over the ragged outpost, his personal asylum and home for the past few months. A tinge of bittersweet lanced him, knowing what awaited. He would miss the Cape, but glad to see the town used to turn the momentum away from Xilor. He would have liked to do the honors of blowing the place to the Underworld, but he lacked the magical discipline. Instead, he opted for a spectacular view, even if it meant he’d be the bait.
For all the men who had fallen to the blade of the goblin, ax of the troll, or the breath of dragons, Kernoyl Tyku hoped they killed twice as many with their final act. He chuckled when countless bodies fell into the Krey pits filled with wooden spears. Even after the first few waves discovered the holes much to their demise, others blindly followed. When the pits filled up, the advancing horde used their bodies as a bridge.
Should have dug the pits deeper, he mused darkly.
“They are breaking through the wall on the south end,” Tyku commented quietly.
“A little longer I should think,” Judas suggested. The warlock sat on the far side of the hill, not ten meters away from Dillon, with his back facing Cape Gythmel. “We’ll wait until they break the inner walls and storm the courtyard.”
“Are you sure this is going to work?” the kernoyl inquired, worried. He almost turned to Judas but caught himself when he remembered the warlock’s words. “For this to work, you cannot, under any circumstances, look at me or in my direction. You must remain forward facing, or this will all be for nothing.”
“Yes, I’m sure it will. I know Xilor; he is smart but never thorough. He will probe you, but when he does, he will probe only you and not the area around you. Once he is satisfied that you are not me, he will not consider you a threat to him or his men.”
“Will I sense the probe?”
“Depends,” Judas said after a heartbeat. “Maybe, if you are sensitive enough. There is the possibility that Xilor may be careless or sloppy and perform a forceful probe. He would only do that if he were certain I was up here because he would immediately strike afterward.”
“So,” Dillon spoke again, slower, taking in everything the other offered, “will I feel anything?”
“It should be informative if and when it happens.” Dillon heard strained patience in Judas’ voice.
Silence ensued for fleeting, peaceful moments. Tyku basked in the rising heat of the mighty blue sun, Apor, his back soaking in the comfortable warmth. A gentle breeze brushed over his skin, a soothing caress, easing his trepidation. The moment was serene, nearly perfect, and Dillon frowned that such moments couldn’t last.
A sudden bolt of cold punched his gut, spreading through his body like a raging fire over dried tinder.
“Whew,” he exclaimed, shuddering. “That was cold!”
“Cold?” the warlock demanded.
“Yeah, really fucking cold! Why do you ask?”
“That was it!” Judas exclaimed, crawling on his belly near the crest of the hill so he, too, could observe the dying town. The warlock watched for a moment, discerning the army’s progress. Anger laced his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me they were already in the courtyard? Damn it!”
“They weren’t the last time I looked. They were just past the outer gate, and then the cold happened. Next thing I know, you come crawling up.”
“Damn,” Judas groaned in disappointment. “His probed must have lasted longer than you realized, ascertaining duplicity or a trap.” Dillon cast a glance at the warlock; an almost-sinister grin flickered across his face.
“Unleash the fires of the Underworld upon them!” Kernoyl Dillon ordered.
In the early morning gloom, the distant town lit up like an exploding sun.
Chapter 82 : Starriace
Months had passed since Julie left her first master’s side in the swamplands. No news reached her ears about the war between Xilor and the Realm. Judas’ fate remained a mystery to her. At this point, she didn’t care, the event too far removed. She had her personal war to wage, either with Judas, Fife, or Xilor.
Julie hated the majority of the six months she spent with Fife, but realized that her capabilities grew exponentially. The Grand Maghai even attested to her strength, noting her command improved thrice since she arrived. The way forward was long and daunting, filled with mastering the concentration and discipline needed to perceive the energy around her. She still lacked mastery of patience, which deteriorated her focus.
When the seasons change, you will know.
She neared a self-appointed mastery. The final traces of uncertainty fell away as she closed on her goal. While mistrustful, and most likely always would be, she no longer doubted herself or her place in Ermaeyth. The day Fife told her to find herself, she let go of her need for control. Once she did, she felt alive. Julie didn’t care if he called her Starriace, but he never did. Anything was better than nothing. By self-evaluation, she found herself controlling, wanting to be in charge of her destiny, but once she acknowledged that she would never control everything, a burden shifted from her shoulders. Though she didn’t ‘find’ herself as commanded, she did discover revelations about herself.
Gradually, she conceded with her true identity, her real name: Starriace. Perhaps when she did acknowledge who an
d what she was, she would attain mastery? Other mysteries and decisions weighed on her mind, costing her precious time and energy.
I should have put the ring on long ago.
Even now, she carried the ring, stuffed safely in her pocket.
Many questions remained unanswered, and many answers begged questions she never asked.
First: her power.
On rare instances of emotional levity, an occasion very uncharacteristic for Fife Doole, he tittered how much progress she made within a short time. His exact words were, “breathtakingly powerful.” After hearing his conversation with the woman, whoever she might be, she no longer trusted him. Every day she honed her abilities, stretching beyond the limits of yesterday, straining to become better, stronger, faster. Progress granted independence, freed her from the shackles of a master who kept things from her. Every test Fife set before her, she failed. Not barely, but miserably, never achieving a proximity to his capability.
Not since the day in his hut, when I broke free of his hold.
If her power tripled since arriving as he vouched, when would she touch the ceiling, reach her limit? Fife’s limit? Judas’ limit?
Second: her true self.
Her name and her heritage. She accepted the fact she may never know, but greatly desired to. What importance did her name possess? Who were her parents? Why did her mother and father leave her on the Other Side? What could have been so horrible, so terrible, that they abandoned to some archaic, unadorned existence? The atrocity bestowed upon her incited resentment and she hated her parents for their grievance.
Third: magic.
Simplistic in its construction, almost like basic math skills: one plus one equals two. Beyond the basic structure, magic became more complicated, not always like addition, but more like converting numbers to figure distances in the heavens. Without form, yet could be molded, siphoned, or contained into any position to reach your desired outcome.
Fourth: the Other Side.
She couldn’t remember the Other Side and she didn’t want to, but she couldn’t forget she lived there at one point. The thought festered, always lurking in her mind, an obstacle like glass, transparent yet still there. Perhaps something would come of not forgetting, something important, or maybe it would fade altogether, the latter preferable.
