by J. W. Webb
For now Ariane needed time to think, form a strategy against Caswallon. So far her lone gambit had been rescuing the Prince. But that had been achieved for her, and still she knew not where the shards were.
Truth was, she, like her friends, was still in shock: her capture and the fight, their flight from Kranek and Roman’s death, then the kraken and the Sea God.
And Ariane mourned her champion. It would be hard in Wynais, making tough decisions without those gruff interruptions from her oldest friend.
Ariane felt alone and vulnerable. She wished Corin was with her. She really did love him. She couldn’t deny it any longer. But he too had a part to play in this business. Corin was no ordinary mercenary. Ariane knew that. But who was he? And who would he eventually become?
Her feelings for Corin were irrelevant, she told herself, an indulgence she’d allowed herself to nurture, a flighty fancy more suited to a tavern wench than a Queen. Ariane’s people needed her.
Enough. It was time she returned home, paid Corin his gold, and bid the fighter fond farewell. Doubtless he’d go back to Finnehalle. Perhaps if he stayed there he would be free from the shadows that stalked him. But Ariane knew that, like herself, Corin would never be free.
We are fate’s children
With that last thought in mind Ariane turned and shut her eyes. When she woke, bright sunlight spilled through her porthole. The fog had gone and with it her last shadows of doubt.
***
They were seven sailors short. Four had been killed up on the square in Kranek and three lost to the leviathan’s thrashings on the deck. Barin would be hard pressed to replace them. He now only had twenty-three men.
“Such hearty fellows are difficult to find,” Barin grumbled in Corin’s ear when his friend brought him up a horn of ale. “Good Valkador lads they were. Tough, resilient, been with me a long time.”
Despite his words Barin owned to cheerfulness. The brig’s master never stayed gloomy long. Close by, face swallowed by murk, sat Zallerak. Corin, looking at him, sensed a shadow lurking beneath those blue bewitching eyes.
“That kraken, what made it appear? Was it some fetch from Morak or Caswallon?” Corin’s hard gaze pressed Zallerak until the bard shrugged and replied.
“Neither. Morak is too weak, especially now, and Caswallon lacks such power. That sea beast came from Yffarn, the underworld. The world fabric is wearing thin, Corin, allowing such horrors to enter Ansu.”
“And the giant?”
“The gods, too, grow restless. With the Tekara shattered there’s nothing to stop Their interfering. And They like interfering.”
“And your part in all this?”
Zallerak smiled at him. “Get some sleep, Corin an Fol. I will see you in the morning.” Zallerak stood up, folded his cloak, and faded into the gloom.
“He’s an odd one,” Barin mumbled, “but we owe him our lives.”
“And Ariane, she saved us too.”
Barin awarded him a sidelong stare. “I’m sorry about that. The boys and I had a feeling you two would end up together, ridiculous though that sounds.”
“I know what you mean. She’s a bloody Queen.” Corin slurped a gulp. “How presumptuous of me. And now she’s sold on this promise she made. What a waste, Barin.”
“She’s a strong woman.” Barin struggled to find the right words. “But I didn’t mean you weren’t worthy of her, lad. Seems to me you pair are made for each other. Who knows, things might turn out alright. Don’t lose heart, laddie. Love will find a way.” Corin raised a brow at hearing such words from his friend.
“Not this time,” Corin replied. “There is too much at stake. I argued against her, but I know she’s right. Ariane has work to do and so do I. We have a Prince and crown to find.”
Barin nodded. “I know, and part of me thinks the fun has just started.”
“Me too, but for now let’s forget about everything. I suggest you get the dice out. I’m going to beat you tonight.”
Barin laughed. “I doubt that, but you never know.” He winked at Corin then turned to the mate, who had just appeared with his arm in a fresh splint. “Ho, Fassof old chap. Go trouble Ruagon for some more ale.”
“If I must.”
“And Fassof.”
“What?”
“Cheer up. We’re still alive and afloat.”
“Can’t say I’ve noticed,” responded the mate before adjusting his arm in the sling and grumbling off below deck.
“I don’t know why he puts up with you,” Corin said, tossing the dice. They were still playing and drinking when the sun burnt through the fog. Morning had come and with it new challenges. One thing remained the same. Corin was still crap at dice.
Later that day the Queen summoned them all below. Ariane smiled as they filed in to Barin’s cabin and took seats. Corin marked how strong she looked, how resolved, her dark eyes bright and clear.
“Right then, you lot,” Ariane announced, accepting a piping tea from Ruagon. “Listen in. This is what we’re going to do.”
***
The raven listens close by the storm hatch, then satisfied, hops across deck and takes urgent lofty wing. Up the bird soars through that clear bright sunny morning. Up and up to where its master awaits news beyond the fabric of this world.
Oroonin One Eye, gazing down from his roofless halls at the edge of time, sees the bird approach like a dark speck from below. The raven settles on His left shoulder and whispers runes in His ear. Moments later its twin returns from another place and time. This one also imparts its message.
The Huntsman nods as He feeds His ravens star flesh, their favorite. He has much to consider. War is coming, a third strife waged between the High Gods and their fallen brother, Old Night. He knows this will be the final conflict, will rage through the heavens until an outcome is decided, an end to all things.
But which side should He take this time? That would depend on many things. No need to be rash. He decides to watch and wait, let His intricate thoughts go wither they will. This time they take Him back to the beginning, to that distant moment when the Weaver weaved the world thread.
Back there again, Oroonin’s canny mind contemplates the architecture of the heavens. All around Him worlds spin wildly on their axes. Suns burst forth into a billion miles of flame, scarlet dragons dancing their fiery dance across the universe.
Oroonin watches as life is weaved from the cosmic thread by the Maker. Time and space ebbs and flows in coruscating spirals. Everything is a beginning and an ending.
He sees stars explode and ancient worlds expire around Him. Past and future meld, becoming the now. All things die and are reborn. The cosmic circle turns and the universe throbs with the rhythm of the Maker’s heart.
Oroonin is there at the beginning. His single, terrible eye witnesses the birth of the High Gods, He and His siblings, first children born of the universe, of the One ultimate creator. He sees himself as a young god striding among them, tall and terrible, with two eyes of silver fire, second in might only to His older brother, the Maker’s first and most beautiful child.
Oroonin waits as others come dancing into the thread. These are the lesser gods and demigods, beings of light and darkness of every shape and form. He sees the lives of myriad races unfold around him, each one oblivious to the pattern of which they are a part.
Oroonin watches as the first nine planets are formed from raw matter. He sees His siblings take Their seats among the stars, at peace with each other, joyful in the embryonic fabric of the Weaver’s tapestry. Great is Their wisdom, much power having been granted Them from Their father.
Ages pass and the High Gods prosper.
Serene in majesty, They rule Their domains well and are content. An age of golden peace thrives amongst the nine worlds. Much is accomplished during this period.
Time passes. The Weaver/Maker weaves new worlds, worlds of crystal oceans and copper fire; dark worlds and light worlds, ever making, ever weaving, and spinning through eternity in His
twisting dance of light.
Time passes
Oroonin watches His Father weave the magic tapestry, blissfully unaware of the flaw in its thread. The Maker is far away and has forgotten His offspring in the endless, joyful dance.
But the Weaver’s children feel neglected. Their clever minds reach inward, questioning Their purpose and wondering why Their Father has not returned to witness Their many achievements.
They begin to resent His neglect, believing He has kept secrets from Them, suspecting that He plans to spawn others that would usurp Their rightful stations.
Thus a wicked seed of discord is sown into Their hearts. The seed germinates, growing fast and strong, fed by Their jealousy and resentment.
Oroonin well remembers the shame of what follows, for He had been a party to it. And the stain of the seed’s fruitless harvest still haunts Him.
He watches as his siblings quarrel, Himself among them, speaking out against Their Father in His absence. The High Gods have become proud in their towers, arrogant and aloof. They question the wisdom of the Weaver. Slowly, carefully, They plot His destruction and turn Their thoughts to bloody deeds. The seed takes root on the first planet, Ansu.
Time passes.
Oroonin witnesses the call to arms. He sees himself, a silver light of flame, joining that unholy rebellion, rising up against the Maker. Spurred on by the eldest and strongest among them, They rebel against the pattern in the tapestry.
So commences the first war in the heavens. Bright and terrible are Oroonin and His kin, riding Their star-wrought chariots across the Milky Way. But Their Father’s wrath is greater still. He cleaves His children’s pride asunder and They are cast down, defeated and chastised. Their high halls shatter to dust, and the ever-patient Maker reshapes the universe without Their participation.
Time passes and Oroonin watches.
Humbled and afraid, his kin set about redressing some of the wrong They have caused, seeking to placate the Maker until Their Father is appeased and loves them again.
Once more there is peace in the heavens.
But the eldest of his children is prouder than His kin. He cannot forget the glory of their challenge. Secretly and cunningly, this one plots against the Maker. The Firstborn is hungry for power and tainted by a new concept called vengeance.
A second wicked seed is born as He conspires, once again, to usurp the Maker’s hold on the universe. The firstborn wants to create beauty out of nothing, but this is forbidden. Only the Maker can create life. Slowly, and with great patience, the eldest weaves His vengeful web.
The Maker is aware of this. He no longer trusts his children. He places a covenant on His rebellious son, naming him Cul-Saan, the overproud.
For a time Cul-Saan is afraid. He holds back, but his courage returns, urged on by His many new supporters.
He alone of the High Gods has surrounded Himself with acolytes and lesser beings. They placate His ego in return for favor. These lesser beings resent their low estates. They desire more power than they have been given.
Through millennia they woo their master, swelling His pride, filling His mind with dark thoughts until once again Cul-Saan rises up against his Creator, assaults the heavens, and wages a second war against the light.
Oroonin watches as Cul-Saan leads an army of fiends across the multiverse. Swarming like blowflies they descend on the bright hall of the Maker. And the Maker is afraid. He calls on His other children to join in war against this terrible son.
Joyfully they answer his call. They too have become wary of Cul-Saan’s ambition, distrusting him and remembering the horror of their rebellion against their father, desiring only peace.
Oroonin recalls the greatness of that day. He sees the bright banners unfolding. He hears again the clarion call of trumpets as the host arrives. Foremost is His youngest brother, the Sky God, Telcanna, radiant and glorious, eclipsing the stars in His chariot of sapphire ice.
At His side strides another brother, Sensuata, Lord of all the Oceans, tall and terrible to behold. Their sister, Elanion of the Forests, is with Them. She, Oroonin’s spouse, his sister, his mate, brandishes Her golden bow.
Behind Elanion ride the Faen, the faerie people, in a shimmering host of green. Alongside His sister’s chariot runs Borian of the Winds, relentless in His wrath. Behind stormy Borian limps the lame Smith, Croagon.
Then Oroonin sees the Lesser Gods: among them the twin sisters, Simiolanis the Dream Maiden and Undeyna of the shadows; their cousin, beautiful Argonwui, and Crun Earth Shatterer before he betrayed Them and became the Forsaken God. Many others there are, all fearful to behold, an army of gods and immortals.
Last of all Oroonin sees himself, shrouded in His thought, a black bird perched on either shoulder, the starlit spear Gloncal gripped in His left hand.
Waiting for them at the edge of vision is the sable host of His brother, Cul-Saan.
Once again war ravages the heavens. In that final battle Crun and Undeyna switch sides. They trick Oroonin into facing Cul-Saan alone, and His eye is torn out by His brother’s hand. But Cul-Saan’s horde is swept aside, His rebellion crushed, and the Firstborn is broken and cast down naked before the Maker.
Cul-Saan’s punishment is grave, as are His followers’. The Maker’s anger is great this time. The war has been long and much beauty is lost forever. He bids them break the proud one’s body, divide it into nine parts.
Each of these they place on one of the nine worlds and set a fire demon to watch over it. The living head of Cul-Saan is buried deep beneath a mountain in the steaming jungles of equatorial Ansu. Great was the fall of Cul-Saan, once the most cherished and powerful of the High Gods.
An age passes.
Beneath the mountain roots the fire demon sleeps, unaware that its charge, Cul-Saan’s severed head, a foul canker of corruption, seeps dark blood into the earth, staining all that it touches, contaminating thought and bending wills.
Oroonin focuses His attention on this His favorite world. He watches its peoples swell and ebb in war and peace, sees the dark river of corruption seep throughout the lands until it taints all who embrace it.
Many are held in thrall by the Dark One’s sentient blood. They worship Him in secret groves. Old Night they name him, and bloody sacrifices are held to assay his wrath. Others flee his stain, calling on the protection of Elanion, the guardian of that world.
Time passes, the shadows lengthen. The cosmic pages unfold, revealing the rise of the golden Aralais and their dark brothers, the silent, shadowy, Urgolais. Years pass and these peoples wax in might. Like the High Gods before them, their powers grow alongside their pride.
The Aralais are a haughty race. Tall and beautiful, they ride upon chariots of glass, emulating the gods. They build high towers, seeking knowledge in the stars above. They come to despise their brethren the Urgolais, believing them a lesser race, as indeed they are in both stature and strength.
But the Urgolais are cunning. They too seek knowledge, but their gaze is downward, to the deep places of the world, where they are ensnared by the creeping taint of Cul-Saan’s blood.
War comes to Ansu, the catastrophic war of the two races in which both are nearly destroyed. Oroonin witnesses the coming of the newcomers, the short-lived ones. Here at last was a race Oroonin could mold to his purpose.
These mortal creatures swell in strength and number. They are much like the Aralais in form, though they lack both the stateliness and beauty of the Golden Folk.
They scour the lands like locusts, breed and multiply, creating wide realms for themselves, and driving the Faen, Elanion’s age-old custodians, deeper into the misty forests. These newcomers are easily tainted by Cul-Saan’s blood, although many strive against it.
They fracture and quarrel, wage bloody wars amongst themselves throughout long bitter years. They too become overproud, and blasphemy is committed. They are punished by the Sea God, and the continent Gol is lost beneath the waves.
One warlord escapes the devastation wit
h three ships. His name is Erun Cade, though history knows him as Kell, and he is wise though young in years, for he has seen much. Kell placates Sensuata’s wrath with the aid of a Water Elemental, a creature similar to the Faen, and is allowed passage east across the endless ocean with his surviving people.
Oroonin sees Kell’s folk disembark on the eastern shores, come to the aid of the Aralais in the final hour of that last apocalyptic battle with their ancient foe. It was said Elanion came to Kell, whom She loved in a dream, and bid him help the Golden Folk. Thus they turn the tide, and the Dog Lords power is broken.
The great days of the Aralais and Urgolais are finished. The ghosts of the shadowy ones flee into the deep places of the earth, and the few surviving Aralais offer Kell their lands in reward for his aid. Then they too retire.
The newcomers thrive in what are to become the Four Kingdoms. Kell’s people flourish in knowledge and power, having been granted thirteen enchanted gifts from the Aralais. The greatest of these artifacts are the crystal crown, the Tekara, and the sword of light, Callanak.
***
A thousand years pass.
The Tekara keeps the stain of Cul-Saan at bay in the Four Kingdoms. But elsewhere it spreads, and Old Night’s dominion widens throughout Ansu. His head stirs uneasy beneath the mountain, and His legions muster for a final war in the heavens. This time, He tells them, the dark will emerge victorious and a new dreadful age dawn.
Oroonin is restless. His Father is remote, lost in foreign worlds, a stranger. Perhaps it is time to switch allegiance—or maybe not just yet. Maybe He should have a crack at the top job. It could be argued that with Father away Oroonin had been running this cosmos for a while, no one else having shown any interest since Old Night’s defeat. Promotion. Oroonin smiles. He likes the word.
