The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2)

by Jerry Autieri

  "Lightning struck my hall, and two people appeared from it. Is this true? How many more wonders will I witness in my day!" Blund's smile did not falter at Tirkin's constant frown and Storra's silence. His eyes slid past them and landed on Lethos, as if expecting an answer.

  "These are friends," he said. "They've come to help me."

  Blund's face became the brightest spot in the rain-sodden gray. "Help you! Why, Redfingers will be driven into the sea for sure." He looked to Valda with a smile splitting his face. "With such help, all of Valahur will certainly call you High Queen."

  "High Queen?" Valda's face grew paler.

  "We do not involve ourselves in the squabbles of mortals," Tirkin said. "We will use your hall now."

  Blund's good humor blew out like a candle in a storm, but before he could unleash his indignation, Storra smoothed him over. "Do not grow angry. We will not linger on your hospitality. Leave us to the hall, please."

  There it was again. Lethos knew she was using the same powers Grimwold possessed, only with far more grace and precision. Blund's eyes snapped to hers as if he had been grabbed by the chin and forced to look. He nodded his agreement, but Lethos saw the confusion in his eyes. The men behind him were already stumbling away. Storra gave Lethos a faint grin and gathered them all toward the hall as Blund left without further argument. The guard at the door slipped away, fading into the sheeting rain.

  Once inside the hall, the servants all backed up or disappeared. A black iron pot sat in the middle of the hall, abandoned by the boy who had used it for a prop to shirk his duties. Lethos stood in front of Storra.

  "You have the same power that Grimwold uses."

  Her smile deepened. "I am but an echo, capable of small commands. I have just had centuries of practice. Your Prime, Grimwold, is the true master of such power. When he finally learns the nuance of his abilities, he will be the most potent of our people."

  Her smile was pleasant, almost motherly. She was an ageless beauty who stood just taller than Lethos. Her silver wolf fur cape fell aside and revealed a generous body wrapped in a blue dress. It was torn in places about her waist, and she quickly pulled the cloak tighter. Pink touched her high cheeks.

  "Where is Grimwold?" Tirkin asked. He was surveying the hall as if he stood atop a crest overlooking a battlefield. Lethos half expected battle horns to sound after the question. He stepped between them.

  "In that room. Look, Tirkin, Turo said you would help us out. Grimwold is--I don't know what he is. He was shot in the chest by a stone arrowhead made from the place of his birth. The storm riders had something to do with it."

  "Storm riders?" Tirkin asked. He was already moving toward the room Lethos had indicated.

  "They came in a big white ship. Turo sank it. A man called Avulash was the captain, quite a bastard."

  Storra raised her brow at Lethos's comments but said nothing. She followed Tirkin.

  Valda stood beside the door of her room, hand resting on the hilt of her sword and casting a wary look at Lethos. If only they could touch minds as he and Grimwold could do. He'd make her understand that no matter how awkward this Tirkin fellow was, they needed him. If she could just feel how desperate he was for answers, she wouldn't be making suspicious faces and narrowing her eyes at Storra as she slid past her. Maybe it was just female jealousy. After all, Valda probably had never encountered any woman to rival her looks before Storra arrived. Lethos thought of all the lovely women at the courts of Naleos. They would kill their rivals if they thought them better looking. Wasn't that how all royal women acted?

  Valda grabbed his arm as he followed the pair into the room then pulled him aside. "Those two are nothing like you and Grimwold. They're wrong."

  "They're just foreigners, and probably ancient. That's all."

  "The woman controls minds. All her words come with barbs. Did you feel it when she ordered Blund?"

  Lethos glanced inside the room. Both Tirkin and Storra were leaning over Grimwold's prone body. Tirkin lifted away the blanket. Unless they were nearly deaf, they would hear everything. Lethos nodded to Valda's question.

  "You've not seen Grimwold's work yet. He can force friends to murder each other. Turo and Kafara became giant eagles and tore men to shreds with their talons. Don't be so quick to judge what is good or bad in the power."

  He left her scowling at the door, and went to Grimwold's bedside. Blanket folded open, Grimwold's naked chest was white and sweaty under the low light of the flickering lamps. The incision Turo had made to extract the arrowhead was a red and raised line amid a swirl of an inky stain. It hurt Lethos's chest just to look upon it.

  "What made that mark?" he asked. "Was it the stone?"

  Both Tirkin and Storra shared a long stare. Lethos wondered how much they said to each other in the privacy of their own thoughts. Did he and Grimwold look like this to other people? It was unsettling to see reactions flickering on their faces to words not spoken aloud. No wonder Grimwold's men shrank away when he and Lethos communicated with their minds. It was weird to behold.

  "There is other magic at work here," Tirkin said. "Both of you will need to work together to fight it."

  "Of course," Lethos's heart beat harder. Answers at last!

  "We will not waste time. We start now." Tirkin reached into a pouch hidden beneath his silver wolf fur cape. He withdrew a wood container wrapped in leather and stoppered with cord and antler. He pulled the stopper and extended the wood flask to him.

  "You must prepare yourself. Drink this."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Avulash stood atop the highest tower of what the humans had called Norddalr. His vision stretched farther than it ever had before. The mists had rolled back again and now more of lost Sathkera revealed itself to his sight. Black smudges of islands dotted the horizon. He would laugh with joy had he not been so bone weary. The wind was strong at this height, blowing across the peaks of mountains that ensconced this ancient stronghold. Leaning over the side, he surveyed the ruined courtyard below where he had fought the Minotaur and the princess. He clenched his teeth at the memory of their battle aboard the ark.

  His arm still throbbed with pain. Even after absorbing more blood and allowing his seeker, Sharatar, to place healing runes upon it, it still had not completely returned to normal. He rubbed it as he monitored his slaves below. The giant he had created--a child's toy, really; with time and a proper place to work he would create true art--struggled to pull the cart into the small courtyard. Avulash's slaves swarmed around the cart and pushed with all their might. They were a jumble of red and black ants around the lumbering giant. The rest of Avulash's crew awaited at the foot of the tower. The diffuse light bounced off their shell-shaped shields as they waited.

  The Minotaur and the princess notwithstanding, all had gone according to plan. The ark was now hobbled, the breach of its hull too large to patch and not worth the expenditure of magic to repair. It had delivered them to the shallows before the keel sank into the ocean muck. The journey was over now and the Manifested had struck him too late to avail them anything. Once the beacon was set, his king and the best of his people would feel its pull across the endless mists. Their white arks would return and the world would be united under the Tsal once more.

  The giant pushed the cart into place and staggered back from it like a drunk. Avulash considered reclaiming its blood for something more useful, but for now he let the giant live. The slaves gibbered and fawned beneath him. How lucky they were to be here for this moment.

  "My brothers, it is time to seat the wild stone once more upon our holy towers." Avulash's voice silenced the slaves like scared puppies. His crew, however, turned their smiling faces up to him. He extended his right arm, the tight pain of his healing wound pulling against it. "Together we will raise it, and I alone will unveil it. Take a look about you now. You see naught but dead and empty halls, devoid of life and of nobility. Once our mighty beacon pulses again, these halls will be teeming with our brethren."

  T
he six crew still remaining with him cheered. Their voices were thin against the high wind, but raised Avulash's spirits nonetheless. The rest of his crew would return soon with their reclaimed wisdom, and would add their voices to the chorus. Avulash gave a fatherly smile to his crew.

  "We have endured the centuries at sea, lost in the fog, only the pulse of wild stone to sustain us. Holy Urdis, maligned by his kin but beloved of his people, never left our side. Today is proof of his promise that one day we would return from the injustice visited upon us. Today is that day. Let us raise the stone and bring our beacon to life."

  His men cheered, and Avulash felt a hot wetness upon his cheeks. How long for this moment? The centuries could not be counted. The glory his people owed him, the sweet vengeance they would take, all would trace back to this moment in the endless flow of time.

  Today.

  Silence fell. The slaves backed toward the wall while the giant stood like a child fascinated by fire. Avulash extended both palms, feeling the coursing pulse of magic in the air. The power of his enriched blood burned beneath his skin, more pleasing than a soft woman against his flesh. Beneath him the crew did the same, and in unison they spoke their ancient words of power. Words and blood pulled together to create what Avulash envisioned. It was as if he shaped flesh, only this was pure force. A hand that none could see but for Avulash's heart-eye engulfed the cart.

  He refined his mental grip. Not the cart, but the object it carried. The massive chunk of wild stone had come all the way from Sathkera, bestowed to his ark by the king himself. It was encased now in a shroud of copper fashioned into the shape of a giant clam. His people's closeness to the sea showed in all their craftsmanship. Avulash's body grew warmer as he and his crew willed the copper clamshell into the air.

  It hovered over the cart, dipped and faltered much as if a true hand manipulated it skyward. Even as the wind gusted across it, the copper shell floated steadily higher until it was even with Avulash's brow. The glint of the sun winked on the time-smoothed edges. How long ago had artisans burnished this copper shroud to its finish? Avulash's wandering thought caused it to waver and tilt. Steadying the shell, he directed it onto the center of the tower. The ancient patterns on the stone floor were still barely discernible underneath centuries of dirt and wear. He knew exactly where to set it, and it clanked into place.

  Releasing his will, he fell back against the edge of the tower. Heat fled his body, leaving him momentarily chilled as it always did after blood magic. Below, his crew cheered again. Avulash licked his lips.

  Once the clamshell was opened, the Manifested would no longer be a concern of his. All of this island would be flooded with enough magical force to destroy their kind. Though they thrived on magic like the Tsal, the inferior, degenerate Manifested could not handle much of it. They had to share it between pairs just to manage it, and if fed too much they died from it. Just as mortal men needed water to live, yet if submerged in it too long the water would kill them. The Manifested were the same with magic. This much wild stone would surely drown any of them.

  Avulash still had the Order of Phyros to concern him. The princess had shown herself as a paladin as well, but she seemed unaware. Perhaps she was not the true heir. She had no sword of the Order. The location of that sword vexed him, but it was one weapon and only one hand could wield it. The Order of Phyros had apparently died out during the Tsal's long absence. Perhaps the Order thought the Tsal forever banished, or they lost the favor of Phyros himself. He did not care. In mere moments nothing would be able to stop him or the Tsal.

  He set his thin hands upon the cold copper, feeling its smooth edges glide beneath his palms. He found the latching mechanism and placed both hands upon the wheel. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to savor the moment.

  Then he cranked the wheel. It stuck, and he was careful not to pull too hard lest he wrench the mechanism. When he had opened the shell during the fight aboard his ark. he had been so hasty as to have nearly snapped off the wheel. Now it turned smoothly.

  The clamshell pinged as it released, and a dark line appeared around the center edge. He continued to turn the wheel and the clamshell opened, as smooth and quiet as if it had only been constructed yesterday.

  The pulsing wild stone revealed in the flat light of the day. Its black iridescence played with the light, swirling colors over its surface.

  The clamshell popped open, and Avulash pulled away the fully opened top. It was too bulky to handle on his own, and with a little less taste than he had desired, he guided it to clang on the ground.

  Magical radiance burst in every direction. Standing so close to it, he felt it prickle his skin. His body swelled with power, and he felt himself straighten. His bones hardened and his muscled bulked. A weariness to which he had so long accustomed himself vanished.

  For centuries he could only sustain himself on brief exposure to the wild stone. Now, bathed in its glory, he grew in might and power. His crew shared the strength, and he heard their cheers grow more wild and joyous. If only the other half of his crew were present for this moment.

  From the height of the tower he could see the mists now encircling the island. Here was the outer limit of the wild stone's powers. Unlike the lesser workings of another, his wild stone magic was potent enough to draw out the natural barriers set by the gods to limit the Tsal. Once his people arrived in force, that mist would push back. For now, any Manifested crossing into it would not live long.

  But the work was not done. He had to light the beacon.

  Avulash closed his eyes in meditation, mumbling words practiced throughout life that numbed his lips and filled his mouth with the metallic taste of blood. He imagined the slaves huddling together, their red and black faces flat with confusion and fear. He pulled on invisible chains. They stepped forward. He pulled again. The moment of their final purpose had come.

  He turned now, eyes opened, arms outstretched and quaking with power. His palms burned like fire as he imagined a hundred chains gathered to them. Below, the slaves had stepped forward just as he imagined.

  His crew would witness the extent of his magic now. This was the highest moment of his art. A small smile came to his lips.

  Avulash balled both hands into fists and a collective gasp came from the slaves. Then, as if tearing away a bedsheet, Avulash jerked at the air.

  The blood of all his slaves became as a red mist over them. They screamed, beady eyes rolling back in their heads, then tumbled lifeless to the courtyard dirt.

  With another short flick of his hands, Avulash sent the harvested blood onto the wild stone. The blood slapped onto the hard stone. It was drenched in red but not a single drop of the blood went astray. He recited his words of power, his voice low and commanding, never hesitant.

  The blood absorbed into the stone, and the light within the cracks began to shine. Fueled with the blood of his slaves, the beacon flared to life. Avulash's heart-eye traveled across the trackless mists to lost Sathkera.

  The world grew dark, as if all had been padded with black cotton. The tunnel through it spun and swirled, echoing with the terrorized howls of the newly killed slaves. A dull light shined at the end of the wispy tunnel, and Avulash's heart-eye sped toward it.

  The cries faded to echoes. A world of lightning and darkness met him. In the flashes of light he saw jagged mountain peaks and the massive winged shapes flitting between them in the vague distance. A white fortress built into these mountains loomed out of the dark. Avulash set his heart-eye for the top of the highest tower. Behind it, lightning decorated the black sky with jagged patterns.

  Then he was screaming.

  The king's mind had touched his, and in that instant he knew glory and pain. His vision became misted and murky. The towering shape of the king hovered over him, formless but for wings curled at his back.

  "Avulash." The king's voice rumbled like thunder. "I see you, my faithful servant."

  "My king, the way is marked. You see the path?"

  The king'
s laughter was more thunder that shook the dark mountains. "I see a bright string of jewels to be plucked. The path is laid out for me now. You have done well, my servant. We, the children of Urdis, will come. Be ready."

  The king closed Avulash's mind-eye as if slamming a door shut. He shouted and staggered. Blind and reeling, then finally collapsing to the stone floor, Avulash's world went dark.

  When he awakened again, Sharatar was leaning over him. His amber eyes and yellow hair were as bright spots in the colorless sky above. He touched Avulash's shoulder.

  "My captain, you survived touching the king's heart-eye? He has seen our beacon?"

  Avulash smiled and nodded, content to lie upon the cold stone. "We must prepare for his arrival. All of the people of this land must be made into slaves. It would be unfitting to present him with anything less."

  Sharatar smiled, "Of course, my captain. We will begin with the folk of this island, but there are thousands more among the other islands. The king shall have all the slaves he desires."

  "That is good," Avulash said. "We will make the people of these islands a gift to our king for his return to the world."

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Syrus stood amid the books and scrolls laid out on the library floor. The papers and parchments were like a massive patchwork quilt of yellow and beige all stained with the strange blue lights of the library levels towering above him. Every moment was an echo in this place, as if the builders had intended the scurrying of a roach to be amplified and heard with utmost clarity. Syrus walked slowly among the volumes and scrolls, some held down with lead weights he had collected from long-ago rotted desks. Other pages were so brittle that they were like thin sheets of ice barely held together in readable format. The scent of dust was heavy in the air, yet even at the bottom level the acrid scent of the slain snake demon still lingered. It was like a stain that would never fade.