by Nat Russo
“Attempted?”
“It didn’t work. Not…exactly. Instead of materializing outside of Hiboran, I felt a…deflection. I ended up some fifty leagues to the northwest of Hiboran, outside a city called Tur. Gave an onion farmer a pretty good fright when I materialized in his house. Every subsequent attempt to travel there met with the same result.”
“How will these fragments help us?”
“They seem to disrupt magic. We don’t know what the Barathosians have at their disposal, but it certainly can’t hurt our efforts.”
Nicolas helped Kaitlyn back up.
“She needs food pronto,” Nicolas said.
“You both need rest. We’ll regroup tomorrow before the ceremony.”
Nicolas nodded and followed Tithian out of the sanctuary.
Aelron grunted as the trailer rolled over a deep rut on the forest road.
Forty years ago he’d joined the Shandarian Rangers as an equal. Now he was in a cage on the back of a trailer being kicked out and taken back to his home. All because he couldn’t moor—telepathically bond—with an adda-ki. Only rangers could tame and ride the massive feline mounts. So, if he couldn’t moor, he wasn’t worth keeping around, in their opinion.
That wasn’t entirely fair. He had killed a fellow ranger as well. That might have played into their decision to evict him.
Letcher had it coming. But they don’t see it that way.
He banged his head on the side of the cage as the wagon lurched over another deep rut.
“I’m not complaining,” Aelron said, “but can we try to miss a few of those?”
“Someone forgot to gag him,” a ranger said. The others erupted in laughter.
Aelron didn’t catch which one had said it, but it was a reminder to keep his mouth shut. His escort hadn’t bound his wrists or ankles—he was in a steel cage, so why bother?—and he wanted to keep it that way.
As he glanced around his rolling jail cell, it became clear the dense forest of towering pines was a prison unto itself. With the seasons turning, if he didn’t die of exposure between here and Caspardis, which was two-hundred miles to the south, then a shriller or roaming crag spider would do what the frigid weather couldn’t. And it would be no use trusting this unmaintained roadway they traveled. For four decades, the road dead-ended in an impenetrable yellow dome. No one knew whether anyone under it was still alive.
Aelron didn’t know what the rangers had in mind for him, but he was certain riding into the area once covered by that dome was a bad idea. He’d lost friends to that dome when it was still up, and he didn’t have many friends left to spare.
More accurately, he had no friends left. Forty years their brother, but now they treated him like a pariah.
If only I had more time!
It was no use lying to himself. Time would solve nothing. He was twenty years past the age most Shandarian Rangers had moored with an adda-ki, forming a bond that ended only when rider or mount died. But his ageless face was another difference they wouldn’t let him forget.
And he couldn’t give them a reason for it, because he didn’t know why he’d stopped aging.
Killing Letcher was simply the final entry on a long list of items they didn’t like about him. It mattered little to them he’d only done so in self-defense.
Freya, Captain Jacobson’s adda-ki, roared for no reason Aelron could decipher. But then there was little about the giant feline mounts, with their bright-red fur, that he understood. Not only would they not moor with him, but the riderless ones became aggressive whenever he approached. They stampeded the last time, killing two rangers and injuring five others.
Another infraction they held him responsible for.
Captain Jacobson glanced over his shoulder at Aelron and glared through eyes made feline by the mooring process. Jacobson sat straight-backed atop Freya. He wore a brown leather jerkin pulled over a woolen shirt that had seen far too many fights. His beard had grown ragged from weeks without a shave.
Two paces, Aelron thought. One jump over the rail and two paces to Jacobson. I can free that dagger he hides in his boot and…what am I saying? I’m not a murderer, despite what they think!
Aelron glanced around, searching for an alternative.
Seven paces to the forest and I can disappear into the trees. They’ll never find me in that dense foliage.
But that wouldn’t work either, and he didn’t need to flip the cursed silver coin he kept in his pocket to know it. Jacobson wasn’t alone. Ten of the best Shandarian Rangers in the order followed him. Aelron’s skills were impressive, but he wasn’t immortal.
“Keep your eye on him, Brother Orvin,” Jacobson said, nodding toward Aelron. “You too, Brother Simmons.”
Aelron ran his fingers over the ranger medallion that hung from his neck.
Seven paces. That’s all he had to survive and they’d never see him again.
There were plenty of game trails he could use, but he was right back to the same problem. Killing a ranger in single combat was tricky enough. Escaping from a group of them on high alert would be nigh on impossible.
He let go of the medallion and it fell to his chest. He was surprised they’d let him keep it. It identified him as a ranger, and that was one association he couldn’t lay claim to anymore.
“I still can’t get used to it,” Orvin said. He shook his head and smiled. “I’ve never seen it not there. It’s always been there, right over that hill!”
Though he appeared the same age as Aelron, Orvin was a boy. And unlike Aelron, Orvin had never known a world without a yellow dome.
Aelron looked up at Orvin without lifting his head. “Things change, kid. Domes come down. Friendships end.”
Orvin lost his smile.
“That’s enough,” Jacobson said without taking his gaze from the road. “Open your mouth again and I’ll have you bound and gagged. By Arin’s helm.”
The look on Jacobson’s face made Aelron’s spine tingle. Whatever he’d seen over that hill had made his face lose all color.
The wagon shuddered as the driver came to a stop, and Aelron took his first look at what Jacobson had seen.
The dense forest of northern Shandarian Union came to a precipitous end in a perfect line spanning untold miles to the east and west. The line wasn’t only perfect in form. It was perfect in the path of destruction that lay in its wake. It formed a ridge in both directions, as if the land beyond had sunk a dozen or more feet and become devoid of life. Forest and grass gave way to dirt, dwarf trees, and sagebrush. Where the ground around the wagon was rich with dark topsoil, the dirt beyond the ridge was cracked and dry.
It was as if the gods themselves had drawn a line in the ground and destroyed everything on the other side of it.
What has that dome been hiding all this time?
“Brother Orvin,” Jacobson said. “Unhitch the wagon and let the unmoored ride with you.”
“But the ridge, Captain? Looks like a fifteen foot drop.”
“You’ve a lot to learn about that new mount of yours, Brother Orvin,” one of the other rangers said. Aelron couldn’t see who.
Jacobson chuckled and patted his adda-ki on the head, running his hand through the black splotch on her otherwise bright red mane of hair.
“You can leap twice that far, isn’t that right, Freya?” Jacobson said, ruffling Freya’s mane.
“Captain,” Aelron said.
“I said that’s enough,” Jacobson said.
“Please,” Aelron said. “Hear me out. We don’t know what we’re riding into. That dome was up for forty years and we haven’t heard from anyone trapped inside since it came down. That place looks like the gods destroyed it for a reason.”
“Frightened?” Jacobson asked. “You should be. No, we don’t know what we’re going to find. But that doesn’t change what you did. And it doesn’t change our duty.”
“I was defending myself.”
“You killed Letcher because of a coin toss, you festering murderer!”
/>
“As I told the tribunal, he was planning to—”
“I’ll not hear any more of it! Your case was tried. I’m not your judge.”
“No. You’re my executioner.”
Jacobson turned away.
“Easy to hide behind the decisions of others,” Aelron said. “Isn’t it?”
“You’ll not die by my hand, boy.”
“We’re of the same age.”
“Nor will you die by the hand of any man here. Be grateful we had an arrangement with your father.”
“My father may not even be alive.”
“That’s your problem. Now, unless you want to be bound and dragged behind Freya, no more talking.”
“Captain, we found something,” Simmons said, carrying something in his fist. “In the ravine. It was just standing there.”
Simmons tossed a white object in the air, which Captain Jacobson caught with ease.
Strange. Aelron could have sworn Simmons tossed it out of reach, but the object made an unnatural arc downward and landed in Jacobson’s hand as if drawn to it. His eyes must have been playing tricks, because no one reacted to the odd movement.
Captain Jacobson flipped the object over in his hand. It was a tiny, white statue of some sort, depicting a smiling man with arms clasped behind his back.
Something about it made Aelron uneasy.
Captain Jacobson grinned a wicked grin. As he moved his adda toward Aelron, one slow step at a time, he shook his head and put the little statue in a saddle bag. When he looked back up from the bag, the grin was gone.
“What are you lot doing?” Jacobson said. “Let’s get this over with!”
Aelron thought it best not to speak as they guided him across the ravine and into a land he no longer remembered.
CHAPTER TWO
Early scholars of the Origines invariably held the belief that Necromancy is the only true magic. My position is different, and perhaps would have been considered heretical five hundred years ago. We should not come to such a hasty conclusion. While it is true the only sacred writings we possess show the institution of Necromancy, that should not be taken to mean the other gods have not passed on magic of their own.
- Coteon of the Steppes, “Coteonic Commentaries on the Origines Multiversi” (circa 520 RL)
Zorian Osa gazed through the portal of his cabin on the Barathosian flagship Vengeance, toward the city called Dar Rodon, whose buildings reflected in the mirrored surface of the Bay of Relig.
Zorian would never admit it, but the stark contrast between the azure bay and the pale sands of the desert city was beautiful to behold. He’d heard about the deserts of the Three Kingdoms—vast expanses of sand and dry ground, ever-changing dunes making it impossible to map certain regions accurately. Barathosia had nothing comparable.
Zorian had no experience of these Three Kingdoms people, yet somehow he doubted they were cowards, as his superiors would have him believe.
No coward could build that palace beyond the bay, with its multi-leveled terraces and spiraling towers. The Religarian palace glowed from whitewashed walls and cast a brilliant light on the pristine inner city that surrounded it. It rivaled the Palace of Ages, home of the Diamond Throne and the Glorious One—the empress herself.
It would be a shame for the armada to destroy it all. Zorian would do his best to avoid the outcome Admiral Unega was so set on achieving.
That might be difficult, though. The admiral tolerated Zorian’s presence on the ship for one reason only. The Glorious One had given him no choice. As Zhuma, Zorian served as the Barathosian archmage’s attache to the military, outside of the military command structure. It allowed him to ask questions without being subject to the whims of higher command. And there were questions he needed answered, if he were to fulfill his mission.
Admiral Unega had ordered the chimeramancers to chimeraport the armada here, and Zorian needed to know why. He had no idea what the admiral was planning, and that troubled him. He’d never met a man he couldn’t read. Others often commented on how accurate Zorian’s intuition was, sometimes accusing him of using magic to discover the secrets men held close to their hearts. That wasn’t true, of course. Zorian could no more channel power than he could jump off the Vengeance and swim back to Barathosia. But it didn’t require magic to understand the predictable nature of powerful men. They would do everything it took to protect that power.
“Tullias,” Zorian said.
A young man standing in the corner of the room, wearing a simple brown tunic and trousers, stepped forward.
“Yes, Zhuma,” Tullias said.
Zorian still wasn’t used to the honorific. He’d never owned an indentured servant before.
“Prepare my things,” Zorian said.
Tullias bowed his head and began gathering items from Zorian’s wardrobe.
Zorian pulled his jacket tight as a cold gust blew through the portal, scattering the parchment on his desk and spreading the salty scent of seawater. What curse of the gods would cause the weather to be frigid at this time of year? Back home, the blossoms of the zahngzee tree were in full bloom, spreading their perfumed scent everywhere, but this place was on the verge of winter.
A knock at the cabin door startled Zorian. He had no friends here, and there was only one person on the ship who would summon him.
“Enter,” Zorian said.
A sailor wearing a wide-brimmed hat with a crimson feather plume entered the cabin.
“Zhuma,” the man said.
Zorian was confused. The sailor wore a tight leather vest, buckled bandolier, billowing pants, and knee-high boots as if he were a member of a landing party. But not just any landing party. The ornate, golden buckle around his waist identified him as a diplomatic escort. And the crossed anchors on his epaulets meant he was an officer. A lieutenant.
“Going somewhere, Lieutenant?” Zorian asked.
“Admiral Unega requests your presence.”
The admiral had never treated Zorian poorly, but there was something dark about him. A malevolence that disturbed Zorian. A summons was unnerving.
“Let’s be off, then,” Zorian said. “Best not to keep him waiting. Tullias, continue. I expect this mess straightened out when I return.”
“Yes, Zhuma,” Tullias said.
Zorian pulled the cabin door shut behind him and followed the lieutenant into the wide hallway. Floral-scented slats of wood, carved from zahngzee, ran horizontally along the hallway, stopping at even intervals where cabin doors prevented them from continuing. There was nothing warm about the pale wood, which added to Zorian’s discomfort in this wintry hell. It was times like these Zorian wished the ship was smaller.
The Vengeance was more a floating city than a ship, a wonder of Barathosian engineering. Hallways crossed at odd angles, and some spiraled up and down among the numerous decks, allowing sailors to move from one deck to another. They entered a spiral at the end of the hallway and climbed ten decks to the Admiral’s Deck, where they emerged onto the outer walkway and its oppressive cold wind. Storm clouds told Zorian he’d have rain to deal with as well as the cold. Soon, judging by the sound of the distant thunder.
They walked more than a quarter mile along the outer walkway before they reached the entrance to the command chamber, a security measure designed by the ship’s architects. Six towers lined the outer perimeter of the ship, and the three port-side towers were in clear view of the outer walk, providing elevated positions for archers to destroy any invading force that managed to make it this far. Kill holes were spaced at uneven intervals both above and below the outer walk, allowing the ship’s massive security force to pick off any invaders that survived the archers’ attack from the towers.
None of it would matter, though. No navy on Erindor could survive a frontal assault against the armada. A small ship might have a chance to go undetected during a large battle, but the boarding party wouldn’t live long enough to set foot on the deck, much less make their way through the labyrinthine passagew
ays and up to this outer walkway.
No, the admiral was safe in his command chamber. Safe from foreign enemies, at least. But more than a few Barathosians would like to see him dead.
Such was the reality of Barathosian politics. Those below wanted your power. Those above wanted to keep you from taking theirs.
The admiral had nothing to worry about from Zorian, though. Not directly. Zorian had greater ambitions than to command a few thousand ships, and the admiral might come in handy someday. First the Three Kingdoms had to be dealt with, though, and Zorian would do everything in his power to see it done. But he wouldn’t do this for the admiral, or from some imperial sense of retribution for a murder that took place before he was born.
No, Zorian would do this for the only reward that mattered. The only title that mattered—Sian’jo. A title that hadn’t been granted in centuries. It was given only to someone who fulfilled an okotba—a personal mission given by the Empress herself, upon which the very honor of Barathosia rested. Success would mean no one but the Glorious One could command him. He would rise above even the Great Houses. He would unify the temples for the Barathosian archmage against the real enemy—the growing chaos enveloping Barathosia, just as the god Arin had predicted.
Failure meant humiliation and a painful execution, of course. And that’s if he survived the mission.
But he would not fail. The Glorious One’s words echoed in his mind.
“Two of you I send,” the Glorious One said. “One I’ve sent to reclaim the honor of my family. But you, Zorian, always so proud of your cleverness. You I send to capture. If you’re so clever, bring me their archmage. But bring him to me in shackles of his own making. Make him stand before me of his own free will. Do so and the world shall bow before you and call you Sian’jo.”
