Disdaining these lesser lives it pulled itself toward two much brighter sparks. It fell upon the larger of the two life sparks first and grew as it fed. His identity became clearer, new senses showed the shriveled husk of the man he had just devoured and revealed the naked and bruised child cringing beside the corpse in the grass.
He raised his shadowy form up from the husk of the man to descend hungrily on the boy. The child, already familiar with exquisite pain, writhed in delicious agony while the spirit took great gulps of his life.
When the child’s spark was extinguished, the spirit devoured his flesh as well. Nothing remained but glistening wet bones when he rose up from the kill, taking the meat of the child into himself.
He thickened darkly with the added substance, and gained a piece of memory to accompany his rage and hunger, the familiar face of a man. The spirit clung tightly to this face. He named himself the Devourer and sent his more powerful senses farther out to a gathering of more bright life sparks. He let himself be pulled forward by his insatiable hunger.
chapter 4
city of thunder
Twenty-Second day of the Moon of the Thief
-in Halversome
Spring reigned in Halversome. Winter’s chill did not reach within her walls. Heat came up through the soles of Lorace’s bare feet. The ruddy and amber paving stones of the street warmed the fluttering sea breeze. The radiant air whirled through his cloak to eddy out the gate and curl up the inside of the immense walls. Stepping within the Pilgrim’s Gate soothed him to his core.
Tornin introduced him to the stationed guardsmen as Halversome’s latest pilgrim, earning Lorace deep bows and friendly greetings. None of the blue liveried men showed any of Hurn’s hidden aspect, though they grumbled lightheartedly at forming a detail bury the wolves.
Within the walls, large, flat-roofed buildings of white, tan and yellow stone turned to gold in the lowering rays of the sun. Smooth-planed timber of rich browns and delicate carvings around their open doorways and windows lightened their heavy shapes. From the heart of the city, a jewel rose tall, the apex of a white pyramid rearing high, capturing the sun as a blazing beacon on its westward face.
On the corner nearest the gate, a large chandlery stood. The drifting wind pulled sweet and spicy aromatics from its wide open doors and windows. Lorace breathed deep and returned the wave of a man hanging a long rack of tapers.
“At first I thought I must have come from here,” Lorace said as Tornin led him into the city. “It seems all so familiar, but I cannot imagine forgetting any of this.”
“If you were from here you must have left a long time ago,” Tornin said. “I would remember you otherwise. There are not terribly many of us to forget.”
The people they encountered were indeed few, perhaps only one or two for every other building and shop they passed, but they smiled and called greetings to one another. When they met on the street, they often embraced and clasped hands, or turned to walk together. Their colorful dress and manners were exactly as Lorace had imagined. They wore brightly dyed, tightly woven clothing often decorated with embroidery and ribbons. Women were only slightly more colorfully adorned than the men; many wore combs of carved iridescent shell in their braided hair.
They all welcomed him heartily when Tornin introduced him as a new pilgrim. Many followed along for a few paces to ask for news from afar, places with names he could not fathom: Orolin, Tilnor, and Zed. He could only shake his head. They commiserated sincerely when Tornin spoke of his missing memories.
“Why are there so few?” Lorace asked when they were alone on the street.
“To answer I must tell the story of Halversome,” the guardsman said as they ambled along. “But there are others who are far better with words than I,” he added with a flush to his youthful cheeks.
The sky blossomed into orange and indigo when they came upon a large plaza in the center of Halversome. The channel of rushing water bordered its north side while several great halls bordered the west and south. The tall white pyramid towered into the darkening sky to the east.
“I will share it as I learned it,” Tornin continued, “Two men, Verth and his younger brother Awzan fled from war and plague in southern Erenar. The war had brought a pox that claimed Verth’s wife and left his twin children gravely ill. As they journeyed, following a vision the Old Gods gave to Verth, more refugees joined them. When he told them of the land of his visions they took to calling themselves pilgrims. When they crested the headland just as you did, they too beheld this valley, as it existed before any single stone had been placed here. Verth’s two children died, succumbing to their illness while looking on the land of peace their father promised them.”
A garden grew along the water channel and from it rose two gray trunks that arched together to form a single tree. Its leafless crown was dotted with closed blue buds.
Tornin pointed to the double tree, “There is where Verth and his brother buried them, and the following year the trees began to grow above their graves. The elves have named it the Voradin tree because its open blue blossoms hold the light of the full moon. It is a blessing from Vorallon, the living spirit of the world.”
Voradin, mistress of Vorallon, a flitting memory pulled Lorace’s thoughts to his first sight upon waking, the blue half-moon hanging deep in the sky. The closed blue flower buds matched the moon’s color perfectly.
“When the elves of the Keth forest,” Tornin gestured eastward with a long arm, “and the dwarves of the Stormwall mountains beheld these two trees, they came in a great gathering to meet with the pilgrims. So moved were they by the trials of Verth, they entered into a pact to ensure the guardianship of the valley and all the people who lived herein.”
Tornin pointed to one of the great halls on the west side of the plaza, its entry carved with statues of short, broad shouldered men. “The dwarves built this fortress at the command of Vorallon. They built many homes as Vorallon bade them. It took many years, the remaining years of Verth’s life.”
He gestured to the second hall on the west where the statues were of slender, elegant folk. “The elves taught the pilgrims how to care for the land and grow crops that would ensure their health and sustain them.”
“All these people came here as pilgrims?” Lorace asked.
“Most were born here,” Tornin replied. “This was three generations ago, and Halversome now stands protecting the valley from any army. Few pilgrims come anymore.”
Lorace turned toward the towering white pyramid. “This building is like no others in Halversome, what is it?”
“That is the Temple of Aran,” Tornin said. “The priests of Aran dwell within and it is always open for the people to pray and learn the word of Aran. It is a recent addition to the city, completed only a few years ago by the hands of men, dwarves and elves.”
Lorace could only stare blankly at the temple. Nothing either cried out for or denied piety within him, and the scars on his body left him wary about any past dealings with gods. His scars marked him, if they were evidence of ritual practices, they were of a most unwholesome kind. He turned away from the looming pyramid in uncertainty.
Tornin returned to his tour with a gesture toward the Guardian’s Hall, the large building bordering the south side of the plaza. He described it as the palace where the leader of Halversome was to reside and hold office.
“Since Guardian Disson’s death three years ago, the Guardian’s Hall has stood vacant. High Priest Oen was named the new Guardian of Halversome, but he has chosen to hold his simple court within the Temple of Aran.”
Tornin’s tale of Halversome tapered to a halt. The guardsman’s attention was captured by a small procession on a high arched bridge spanning the water channel. It was led by a tall slender woman with long flowing hair so white it shined like silver. She wore a close fitting white gown that was simple but elegant, and carried a spray of small white flowers. Following her were a dozen children, so excited by her presence they could not contain their urge to dance wi
ldly about.
“Who is that?” Lorace asked.
“That is Adwa-Ki,” Tornin replied, straightening his shoulders and tugging creases out of his surcoat. “She is matron of the elves of Keth; we are blessed to see her here.”
She shooed the children off to their homes with a gentle gesture that they all sadly obeyed. Then she turned and looked directly at Lorace with eyes of bright lavender that could be seen across the width of the plaza. At her beckoning gesture, Lorace and Tornin paced forward. Her own steps appeared to glide her across the plaza to meet them before the garden of the Voradin tree.
Lorace noted her inhuman features with a wide gaze. Her eyes were overlarge in her unlined face, and of a lavender hue that held the golden blaze of the setting sun. The delicate tips of her ears peeked upward from her long, spun silver hair well above the level of her temples. She was fully as tall as Lorace and her body was willowy and sleek beneath the silk of her dress. Were a human to be equally slender, their knees, elbows, and ribs, all their bones, would have bulged out unwholesomely.
Tornin bowed low and introduced Lorace to her as a new pilgrim.
“Greetings, pilgrim Lorace,” she said with a graceful bow before offering a portion of the white flowers she carried. “Would you care to share in my offering to the Voradin tree?”
Lorace accepted the flowers with a respectful bow, noting that she was careful not to let her finely tapered fingers touch his. “It would be an honor, my Lady.”
He surprised himself by how easily the courtly words came to him. His reward was a gracious smile that revealed her even white teeth.
“You must call me Adwa-Ki, please,” she tilted her head to one side. “To your friends, you must always be only who you are.”
She spun lightly toward the Voradin tree. “The tree is very special to my people, for it marks the blessing of Vorallon upon the union of elves, dwarves, and men. If young Tornin has been dutiful, he has told you of Verth’s children: Halverth and Somera, the two who were one. Their tragic story touched Vorallon and my people deeply.”
“You speak of the world as a living being, caring about the fates of men, blessing or condemning their actions.”
“I speak of the living spirit of the world. It is he whom the Old Gods cherish, and it is he whom the Lords of Balance ward. We see Vorallon’s hand in the swing of the day, and in the rise and fall of the tide as he dances with Voradin in his embrace. His breath is the air that the trees reach up to caress, his body is the soil their roots seek to embrace; that they should strive and grow to do so is his will.”
“He is the essence of life?”
“Indeed he is, and we name that essence Vorallon,” she turned to the trunks of the tree and gestured for him to place his flowers before one trunk while she made a similar offering before the other.
“To our knowledge, nowhere else upon the world does this tree grow. When its round, blue flowers bloom during the Moon of the Sage, those fortunate enough to catch their scent may receive a vision from the spirit of Vorallon. It is the vision I was blessed with fourteen years ago that brings me here today, to meet you.”
“Me? I do not understand,” Lorace gave a slow shake of his head. “I don’t even know who I am other than my name. Why would you have a vision of me?”
“I believe because you are important to Vorallon,” she said with a slight narrowing of her oversized eyes. “Important enough for him to have sent me a vision years ago. Other than that, I do not know. It was his will that brought you here, as all other pilgrims before you have been drawn, because your spirit is true and pure.”
Lorace opened his mouth to speak, to question her, but a heavy pounding of his heart stilled him. It beat in a strong slow rhythm, overwhelming all volition, and for the moment, it was all Lorace could focus on. A small conscious portion of him heard the elven matron speaking to him but her words fell upon him like wisps of insubstantial cloud.
“Listen to the destiny you carry, Lorace. It is time for you to heed its call.”
The metal sphere in his hand began vibrating like a bell struck to each beat of his heart, and to his ears came the distant ring of a hammer striking an anvil to the same rhythm.
chapter 5
bearer of godstone
Twenty-Second day of the Moon of the Thief
-in Halversome
Drumming his fingers on the hilt of his sword, Tornin waited outside the garden while Lorace and Adwa-Ki spoke, their words drowned out by the gurgle of the channel beyond. His pulse continued to leap with exhilaration at his heroism on the battlefield. In all his twenty summers, it had been his first opportunity to raise sword and use his gift in another’s defense.
With keen eyes he had spotted the ragged man running across the field and the wolves close on his heels, yet he could hardly retrace the steps he had taken from his post atop of the south tower to the first sweep of his sword. He had never moved so fast. The gate watch had not even seen him run past. But the effort had left him ready to collapse with only one wolf slain. If the remaining wolves had chosen that moment to charge, before his vitality could return, they would have fed well.
Now the man he saved, the first pilgrim to come upon Halversome in over a year, was in audience with none other than Adwa-Ki—she who stood before Verth and swore oath to the Guardian’s Pact.
He squared his shoulders in satisfaction. All the hope that he would seize the opportunity to act when it was required of him had borne fruit. All the drilling and endless sword training under Guardian Oen himself had not guaranteed him a place to stand among heroes, but this small showing of what he was made of on the inside thrilled him.
The sight of Lorace staggering away from the Voradin tree brought him back into the moment. He lunged forward to catch his charge, but a warning gesture from Adwa-Ki stayed his hand, allowing Lorace to trudge past, out of the garden.
“Follow him, guardsman, he hears only the will of Vorallon for now,” Adwa-Ki said with gentle authority, before she turned back to the Voradin tree and knelt.
Without questioning, he placed himself protectively between his charge and the water channel as Lorace’s jerking steps carried him eastward. They passed the bridge where the elf had first appeared and continued.
Tornin could hear the steady pounding of a hammer on metal coming from Thryk’s forge. It was this sound Lorace headed toward when he turned and walked into the heat of the open workshop. Lorace halted before the dwarven smith while Tornin stood beside him smiling. From battle, to elf matriarch, to dwarf, Tornin’s exhilaration had not waned.
Halversome’s only permanent dwarven resident was hard at work upon a large plow blade. He held it steady with one powerful hand while he delivered hard, precise blows with his hammer to its glowing edge. He worked it every bit as masterfully as he had the sword Tornin wore at his side and the armor that weighed his limbs.
Tornin gave a small cough. The dwarf set the plow blade to the edge of the forge fire and slipped his hammer into a loop on his leather apron before turning to address them.
When the hammer blows ceased, Lorace became conscious of standing near the heat of a forge with his metal sphere held out before him. The tree and the elf were gone, in their place stood a short, massive shouldered man, a dwarf. Though the top of the dwarf’s bald head only came up to the pit of Lorace’s stomach, the smith had the commanding presence of a stone monolith. A tightly braided black beard and bushy black eyebrows masked much of the dwarf’s features but there was no mistaking the widening of his deep-set brown eyes at the sight of the dull silver sphere in Lorace’s hand.
“Godstone!” Thryk exclaimed while his powerful hands clenched at his sides.
“You know what this is?” Lorace asked. Hope flooded his still throbbing heart.
“It is godstone, man, blessed to the heroes of Vorallon,” replied the dwarf. “It is the second time in my life I have beheld it with my own eyes. There is no other metal like it, and no normal fire that can heat it. Once it is for
ged, its destiny becomes that of the wielder.”
Lorace tried to hand the godstone sphere to the dwarf who drew back shaking his bald head vigorously. “You are the bearer, only the bearer may touch the godstone before it is forged. Were anyone else to touch it, their fate would change in untold ways, binding them to the destiny of the godstone as well.”
He leaned forward to peer at the metal sphere. “It is not like the raw godstone I have seen before, it is larger, and has the perfection of already having been forged, but it is not.”
“I should not have this, where it came from is a mystery,” Lorace said while Tornin laid a hand on his shoulder. “You say this is only given to heroes of Vorallon, but I am no hero. I do not worship any gods.”
“It can only come from Him,” the dwarf asserted. “And only to the bravest and purest of heroes. If you have it, it is because the gods have faith in you. I am called Thryk. It will be my task to take you to the Ritual Forge, where your destiny will be struck true. Only upon the sacred forge stone in Vlaske K’Brak, can godstone be made malleable.”
Home of the Heart. Lorace comprehended the dwarven words with surprise and his green eyes opened wide with memory. He stood before another dwarf, the brown haired and bearded Taggi, a massive dwarven man with legs like trees and shoulders like mountains; at least they were to the small child who looked up toward the plate armored dwarf.
“You cannot strike down a cursed demon of Nefryt with a normal blade,” Taggi instructed the child in a sharp rattle of dwarven consonants. “This is why you have been taught the Ritual of Banishment, to cast them back to their realm before they have engorged themselves on the souls of men. You must always be teamed with another who can cast the Ritual of Binding which is not wise for you to do, young Lorace. The binding will halt the demon until the Ritual of Banishment can be completed; the words are many and must be said precisely.”
Gifts of Vorallon: 01 - The Final Warden Page 4
