Mythos had no time to ponder the panorama as the third sphere hurtled skywards towards him. Seeking to evade the blast, Mythos soared through the hole in the shattered roof to the nearest cover he could find . . . one of the enormous spires of the astral palace.
The sphere shattered the outer crystalline walls of the superstructure before blasting outwards with devastating force. The cataclysmic blast tore through the crystalline edifice as if it were little more than glass. For a moment the head of the tower, a large sapphire dome, was severed from its base and hung suspended in the air before gravity compelled it down. Striking the remnants of the tower below it, the crown of the tower lurched dangerously and heavily towards the throne room.
Alphaeus watched with horror as the dome descended towards the Aethyr. Seeing no way to escape the sunken chamber in time, Alphaeus conjured a golden portal in the air and ran for it. As the Empyrean heir was about to pass through the gateway he glanced back over his shoulder and saw the spire-tipped dome strike the Aethyr with colossal force.
The ancient artifact strained at the impact, its once-smooth surface contorted under the stress of the tower’s mass. Sapphire and ruby hues played across its surface as the arcane device began to buckle. Alphaeus plunged through the golden gateway, his destination a world on the eastern fringes of the Empyrean Empire.
Mythos watched from his vantage point in the sky as his brother fled the destruction of the crumbling Aethyr. A lash of energy as black as a moonless night burst forth from the damaged artifact and struck the stone stairs which led into the pit. Before Mythos’s very eyes the stairs vanished. They did not vaporize as if struck by an explosive force—instead, wherever the lash had touched the stone, the stairs had simply ceased to be—large sections of the stone work gone without a trace. A second and third arc of the deadly energy lashed outwards with similar effects.
With no defense against the dark matter and complete destruction of the Aethyr imminent, Mythos considered his options. Apollos was dead, Alphaeus his brother vanquished—Mythos alone remained. Empyrea was the seat of power, the jewel of the empire. To yield the ground he’d gained at so high a price chafed against his pride.
On the other hand, he had no reference for the destructive power pouring out from the failing Aethyr. Will there even be an Empyrea left to rule from? Fearing the unknown, Mythos erred on the side of caution and conjured a portal that would take him to one of his worlds where, surrounded by his subjects, he could re-gather his strength.
In the throne room below there was a creak as the door opened. Chandra, Queen of Empyrea pushed open the door. Eager to learn if her sons had indeed born out her revenge, she entered the devastated chamber, a smile gracing her lips. Her sons were every bit as hungry for power as their father—they had not been difficult to manipulate.
Before her eyes lashes of dark energy arced through the chamber, erasing all traces of the elegant structure where they struck. Unable to turn from the spectacle, entranced Chandra approached the edge of the Aethyr’s pit. A bizarre sight greeted her eyes—the destroyed remnants of a sapphire dome littered the pit, and hovering in the air a large sphere of black energy pulsed and distorted as it grew. Seeing her doom approaching, Chandra turned her thoughts to her mate who had been immolated by Apollos after he had wiped out their village. I will see you soon, Tehaka.
Abruptly the sphere collapsed. The last thing Chandra of the Kalgathi saw before her own existence was erased, was a surging wave of pulsing dark matter that billowed from the pit. The tide consumed all before it. When its energy was spent, the astral palace—the glory of Apollos—was no more. In its place an enormous crater blighted the once-perfect landscape.
Sevalorn
A large version can be found here on my website.
Chapter 1
The foothills of the Teeth of the Desert, Empire of Andara
The morning sun bathed the mountainside with welcome relief from the biting wind. The strong southeasterly gale was an ever-present reality here. As the air rose from the sea and blew through the peaks, it seemed the sky itself was howling its protest. So it should: the first touch of spring was on the land, but at this elevation the bitter bite of winter remained.
Above the whistling of the wind a sound burst through the clearing. Were it not for the distance, it might have been the crashing of a wave upon the seashore. In the center of the clearing appeared a great cleft, splitting the air asunder. Just above an inky black portal coalesced and a crimson hue burst forth from the murky conduit.
In the light a silhouette became visible, small at first but growing as the figure drew nearer. As it reached the gateway it paused and surveyed the plateau before it, then stepped through the portal and into the clearing. As suddenly as it appeared the portal collapsed, its only trace a faint sulfurous odor that hung briefly in the clearing. Soon it too was driven off with the wind.
The being stood tall, close to six feet, clothed in a heavy black robe with crimson edging. Emblazoned across his chest was a large crimson moon set amid a sea of small stars. In his right hand he bore a steel staff. At its head the symbol of the crescent moon had been forged from steel, lending the staff the appearance of a harvester’s scythe. The symbolism was appropriate: the harvest here was long overdue.
The signs came from every direction . . . life. By the millions, the land teemed with it and he smiled, for his coming signaled the harvest. I shall divide the wheat from the tares, the Disciple thought as he drew his cowl up over his head to shield against the biting wind.
With steady strides he commenced his journey down the mountainside, pondering his homeland. Where once its spectacular vistas had felt indelibly printed on his mind’s eye, now the Disciple struggled to recall anything at all. The corridors of memory had darkened with the passing of time and the ordeals of his initiation.
The pathway to discipleship had been lengthy and arduous. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had been the son of simple peasant farmers. As a boy he’d been playing in the field when a Koja beetle the size of his fist latched on to his arm. Try as he might it could not be dislodged; the more he struggled against the creature the deeper it burrowed into the flesh of his arm. Blood seeped out around the black-carapace of the creature.
The Koja beetle had struck bone and continued to burrow. Pain shot through his body and he screamed in earnest agony. As his body weakened from pain and blood loss, he cried out in desperation. “Gods above, spare me! I’ll do anything you ask, just spare me please.” The boy clutched at the beetle in a last feverish attempt to remove the carnivorous creature. Deep within, he felt something. A wave of warmth radiated out from his core. As the wave washed outwards the Koja beetle was expelled forcefully from the wound.
Forgetting his agony the boy picked up a stone in his good hand and leaped after the beetle. He raised the stone high above his head and brought it down with all the might he could summon. The stone crushed the beetle in a single stroke. Not content with his retribution, the boy angrily ground the beetle into dust. He was satisfied with the destroyed remnants of the creature and attempted to use his shirt to bind up the wound. He gingerly made his way back to his home, but as he reached the farmstead he startled.
His parents stood cowering in the doorway. Before them stood six figures, clad in robes of black and crimson. Running to his parents’ side he shouted to the visitors, “Who are you? Why are you here?!”
The lead figure moved towards the boy and crouched down to his height. In even tones he replied, “Child, you called out, and your God has answered—now there is a price to be paid. Will you honor your oath?”
“What do you mean?” The child trembled.
“You have the gift and he would have you hone it in his service. You are to become a Disciple—like us, you will serve the one true God and in his name you will do great works.”
“No,” The boy’s father stammered. “He is our son, he will remain with us.”
“Be quiet, fool, or I will silence you permanentl
y,” the Disciple instructed impatiently.
“What gift? I don’t understand,” the boy said, trying to draw the Disciple’s attention away from his father.
“You will in time, child. All of your questions have answers but not all of them are for today. Bid farewell to your parents. It may be many years before you see this place again, if at all.”
“What if I do not want to leave?” the child asked fearfully, emotion ringing in his every word.
“You promised you would do anything if he spared your life. How quickly a child forgets the pain he has so recently felt. Our master will not abide an oath-breaker—if you do not accompany us we will lay waste this village and everyone in it, lest the reminder of your broken vows anger our Lord and kindle his wrath.”
Tears rolled down the child’s cheeks as regret over his foolish utterance pained his soul. He embraced his parents one last time, and then turned to the robed figures. “I will keep my oath. Just leave my family in peace.”
“Do not fear, child, for our God rewards those who serve him diligently. Your service will bring your family great privilege. Sorrow not. Today all of your lives will change forever.”
After just a few days it became apparent that the privilege spoken of lay on the distant side of a precipice of pain. The pathway of discipleship demanded devotion—but remembering the ordeal with the Koja beetle made the pains of his passage bearable.
The Disciples taught him to fast: at times they would go for days without food. “The body must be subservient to the mind,” the master taught, “every distraction purged.” As the refiner’s fire, the ordeals he passed through shaped his growth and sharpened his intellect.
It seemed the boy’s mentor had a talent for pushing his limits. Each ordeal brought him to the brink mentally and physically as the young Disciple trod this lonely pathway of life.
One morning his mentor appeared and led him out into the desert. The boy had been fasting for two days and quickly grew weary of the journey. After several hours his mentor stopped by a small oasis. The watering hole and shade of the trees provided respite for travelers journeying in the oppressive desert heat. “Lie down on the sand,” he instructed.
Quickly the student obeyed, stretching out on hot sand. With no explanation the mentor drew from his pack a coil of rope and proceeded to tie it around the student’s ankle, then looped it around a nearby tree and fastened it around the boy’s other ankle. With the aid of several other trees and a second length of rope the mentor completed his task. The student lay stretched out between several trees, arms and legs extended, the desert heat beating down on him.
Without explanation the mentor repacked his bag and turned to return to the city. The student cried out, “Master, what have I done?”
The mentor answered impassively, “Nothing.”
“Then why leave me here to die? Hungry and weary as I am, I will surely perish.”
“You may, or you may live. That is your choice. If you survive, return to the city and your training will continue in earnest. I hope to see you soon.” Without another word the mentor turned and departed. The student watched anxiously as his mentor disappeared over the horizon.
For what seemed like an eternity he lay there, the desert sun beating down through the sparse foliage. As the sun continued to its late afternoon intensity, so too did the heat. If I do nothing I will die from this heat. Or worse, become prey to one of the many predators that call this place home. Sooner or later one would show up at the watering hole, and he would present a meal too sumptuous to pass up.
Slowly the boy began to struggle against his bonds. His muscles ached from the exertion and fatigue set in quickly. Slowly he maneuvered until he had gained some slack around his left wrist. The rope slid up but try as he might he could not get his hand out. Gritting his teeth he yanked with all his might. The rope slid over his thumb, almost tearing it out of its socket, and a scream escaped his parched throat.
Slowly he used his free hand to draw a knife from within his robes and gingerly began to cut himself loose. With his injured hand it took far longer than he would have wished, but soon he was free. The student stumbled for the water’s edge, but his strength failed him and he collapsed. Dragging his exhausted form along the sand, he reached the water and plunged his head into it. The precious liquid soothed his dry throat as he gulped loudly, drinking his fill.
He rolled onto his back and rested. After he had regathered his strength he set off after his mentor. In his weakened state it took almost eight hours to walk, stumble and drag his way back to the city, the last hours in the dark. Arriving at the gates delirious from exhaustion, he collapsed. The guards saw his robes and carried his exhausted form back to the academy.
When the boy came to his mentor was standing over him smiling. “It is good to see you again.”
“I could have died,” the student protested.
“Indeed, many do, but you did not. Now that you have mastered yourself, there is much you must learn.
“What could be worth dying for?” the student asked incredulously.
“Magic,” the teacher answered patiently. “Its secrets are not shared with those yet to prove worthy. Today you have done so and tomorrow the rest of your training begins.”
That fateful day had been years ago. He had now been reborn—Jonas the Disciple. Like those who bore him from his quiet village, he traveled worlds without number, carrying out his master’s will. World by world the word was being spread. In the distance he could hear it—a bell tolling through the valley. Heathens, thought Jonas. They too must be brought into the fold.
Jonas adjusted his course and made his way towards the tolling bell. Soon he found himself on the outskirts of a small township. The fields about the town were practically deserted. Following the laneway that led through the sleepy town he found what he sought. In the distance he saw it: a large stone church. High above, its belfry now sat quiet, waiting for the conclusion of a service well underway. Dozens of horses stood tied to a hitching post in the yard. Several carts and wagons waited nearby.
Jonas moved towards the old stone building. Heavy wooden doors blocked his path. From within he could hear a muffled voice droning on. Unable to discern what was being said, he approached the doors. He turned his staff so that the curved crescent of the moon faced the door, and he delivered three sharp raps on the wood. The voice inside ceased. Content that he had their attention, he leaned into the doors, throwing them open.
The people gasped as he entered. Almost a hundred filled the pews, and all of them viewed the newcomer with slack jawed surprise and wonder. Behind the lectern stood an older man in priestly robes. As Jonas opened his mouth the symbol on the priest’s chest gave him pause. A golden sun blazing amid a sea of stars—on the wall behind the priest the symbol was again repeated. During his initiation the image had been indelibly seared into his mind. This was the first world on which he had encountered it. Betrayer! Jonas thought as his temper rose.
Striding into the church, he moved boldly down the aisle. He found his voice and declared loudly, “Why gather ye together to worship a false god? Are you so far removed from his presence that you have forgotten your God altogether? As his Disciple I bring his word. All who repent and embrace him will be spared. All who wander in forbidden paths will perish before his glory.”
The priest stepped around the lectern and bore down on the unwelcome visitor. “False god? You speak out of place, stranger. We worship him who first gave us our freedom. You would do well to mind your tongue, for the Allfather watches over us still.”
Jonas’s response dripped with malice. “I know not this Allfather of whom you speak, but you wear the image of the smiling sun. I would to God that you did so ignorantly.”
The priest’s brow creased in confusion. “You must be new in these lands, traveler . . . for the Allfather is the sun, and he bringeth life and light to us all.”
Jonas eyes went wide. For years the Disciples had sought signs of the trait
or amongst the stars. Now he stood on a world that bowed in obeisance before him as this “Allfather.” Mythos must hear of this. Realizing the entire room waited for his response, he addressed the priest. “I see that you knowingly walk in rebellion as you sow lies among this people. I cannot abide it.” Clutching his staff in both hands, he chanted angrily at the priest.
The outburst caught the priest by surprise, before he could react. Flames leaped from the head of the staff. The old man sought to shield his face but the flames hungrily consumed all before them. The priest screamed as he was burned alive. Behind Jonas there was a shriek of terror, and in the chaos a child could be heard crying as the roar of the flames ceased.
When the flames dispersed a pile of ashen bones was all that remained, the fire having purged all other traces of the priest. Turning to face the congregation Jonas spoke authoritatively. “The hand of the one true God Mythos stretches out to this world. All who embrace him will be spared the fate that you have witnessed here today. All who oppose him will perish. Do you understand me?”
There was a flurry of movement as terrified worshippers nodded their head furiously, anxious to avoid the fate that had befallen their late priest. Jonas smiled at their submission. “Excellent—now go and spread the word.”
Chapter 2
The Plains of the Kairon
A steady breeze swept across the arid rolling Plains of the Kairon. For months Arsenath had awoken hoping for even a glimpse of storm clouds on the horizon. But today, like so many days before, the warm sun beat down from a cloudless sky.
When The Gods War_Book 2_Chronicles of Meldinar Page 2
