I can feel the slight pull of many brothers upon my senses. I feel the suns they dance with, but their warmth does not reach me. I call out to my brothers, but they remain silent and sleeping, I am alone.
You know of the other worlds? Lorace thought toward the flow of Vorallon’s early memories.
YES, but they sleep. I return to my fascination of the life upon me. I watch as they love and struggle. I share in their laughter and tears. This sheds warmth that strengthens me. I awakened to this warmth, and with it, I thrive. It is greater than the warmth of the sun. More soothing than the pull and caress of my silent moon brother. Some of the sparks have learned to touch me, making more warmth flow. I reward them with my warmth in return. They use this to help them love and fight even more. I watch them and enjoy their warmth for many more dances around the sun. Every twelve dances the sun pulls me even closer to warm me well, and I am strongest then as I am NOW.
Then a presence comes unto me that gives only pain. It steals my warmth, it hurts the sparks of life upon me, and I cry out for help. I am heard by the Others! Look upon my bane.
Lorace saw the great black dragon, Kamunki. Huge and unrelentingly powerful. He reared up like nothing he had ever dreamed existed. The beast fed upon Vorallon’s living spirit. Foul men who worshipped the dragon, made offerings of those they captured and enslaved to further feed his hungers. Vorallon showed the origins of the Zuxran raiders. Kamunki raised a mountain of black stone around himself. He moved the stone in rippling waves, shaping it into the walls, towers, and chambers of Blackdrake Castle with as much facility as Lorace manipulated air.
The Others come swiftly, and they reach out to me, from beyond where my brothers spin in their sleep, they come. They show me how to look more closely at the life upon me. Their wisdom is so much more than mine. They are so very old and I am young and alone. They show me how to help them so that the pain will end. I give them an ever so tiny portion of my essence, and they work it with the hands of those sparks who live within my mountains. They craft a weapon of this essence and gift it to another spark, one which is strong and beautiful, it is one I have watched many times, loving the warmth she gives.
A young Yarkin traced circles on the floor surrounding a tall, raven-haired woman who must have been Elena. The Ritual of the Forge completed with the shaping of her long godstone spear.
The Others assure me she will seek out the one that pains me and end it.
The battle between Elena and Kamunki was spectacularly violent. Elena darted among the dragon’s sweeping talons, sidestepping snapping jaws that struck with the speed of a snake. The woman moved ever faster until she was a blur that Kamunki could not strike with his talons, teeth, or dark fiery breath. Even the spears of stone erupting from the walls and floor, at the dragon’s will, could not strike her down as she wove a path ever closer to the colossal creature. At last, her lance plunged deep into the dragon’s heart. Kamunki’s life-blood spewed, melting the floor out from under him. Falling, he managed to clutch Elena to him. Together they descended into the hissing and bubbling stone.
The beautiful spark I love is gone and I am sad. The painful one is gone, though his wounding lingers.
I spend many more dances about the sun watching my lovely sparks. Then I see that many of them are fighting more than loving. The warmth they give dims. Several more times, as the dances continue, sparks arise which pain me, stealing my warmth. When this happens, the Others come at my call. To them I give more of my essence so that my dearest sparks can cut away the ones that hurt and pain me.
Through the battle between Kvarrak and Gnarwa and the dreadful encounter between Dranna and Losqua, Vorallon’s love shined brightest on his godstone heroes.
It continues to grow colder and colder as more of my sparks stop loving and fight more. Those that keep fighting steal my warmth. Soon only the warmth of the sun is nourishing me and there are fewer and fewer of my dearest sparks. I cry out to the Others and they show me what must be done. They help me gather my favorite loving sparks to a safe place near my heart where I can enjoy them, but they are so few.
A long string of people, weary from travel, top the headland into the Keth valley, the pilgrimage of Verth and founding of Halversome. The call of Halversome was loud in his mind, the call that led him to its walls. You were calling to me.
YES! My sparks need help if they are to thrive and give me warmth with their loving and fighting. The Others asked me to choose two of them who are dearest to me. They shall unite. Their offspring will be my wardens to ensure the continuation of warmth. I watch over them closely, learning their essences well and sharing with them the best of my warmth I can give. From these offspring of my dearest of sparks, I learn many things I have never guessed before. I have become closer to you than to any other.
Fara and Veladis united before the altar of the Lady. Sir Rindal, as a young man, received Brakke Zahn. Lorace wept to visions of himself and his brothers as they grew through boyhood. Vorallon watched it all.
They have words to name themselves to one another—just as the Others named me Vorallon. I call out their names, but my wardens cannot hear me, only the sparks under the mountains can hear. The Others tell me my wardens will help awaken my many brothers, and I am glad. When one of my wardens is lost, I search endlessly for him—for you. Then the pain returns, and with it you appear to me again. The pain is much worse than other pains I have had since the first one. It steals my warmth and kills my sparks without end. When I cry to the Others, they tell me that I must use you to end this pain forever, and they name you to me. You will fight for me, and you will return the warmth to me like no other has before.
Vorallon’s memory of the tragedy within the hall of the Order of the Lady was excruciating to behold, then came his own staggering awakening upon the beach and his march to Halversome. Vorallon had watched him the whole while, sending him his strength, his warmth. There were no memories of his possession.
I give you what warmth I can, and you grow stronger than any spark has ever been, but the pain grows as well. It has returned to the old wound and festers there as it did in the past, only now it is reaching out to a different Other—a Dreadful Other.
The Devourer. Somehow, Vorallon saw him clearly despite the demon-spirit’s gift. Huge and perfect, he wore Lorace’s face as Iris said. He wandered the throne room, kicking piles of bones into the deep crevasse that had melted under the corpse of Kamunki. Vorallon shied away from the darkness that formed at the bottom of that pit, it was the gateway to undeath. The blight poured out of the black stone of the castle, from where it had lain dormant since the time of Kamunki. The essence of undeath had been stored within the very stone for hundreds of years.
The essence of the Dreadful Other robs me of warmth, and it robs my sparks of life, turning them into horrid pain. Everywhere they trod upon me, I feel their sting. Worse yet, the essence of the Dreadful Other burrows into me. Only the warmth coming to me, through my last remaining sparks, sustains me while the sun pulls me close for one last embrace of its precious warmth.
The blight invaded Ousenar. It warped hulking ogres, even taller trolls, men, and animals into horrible monstrosities. After they changed, they turned their lumbering steps toward Blackdrake, toward the hungry presence at the bottom of the deep, melted pit.
You, my last remaining warden, give me more warmth in one effort than I have ever felt. You unite many of my beloved sparks at once and choose the two who are also dear to me to share my essence. I act without the aid of the Others to make the tools I will need to fight this pain. Finally, I can share with them my name, and they can hear—I am Vorallon!
Lorace saw again the uniting of spirits to empower Iris’s enchantment. The power drew Vorallon forth, giving him the strength to forge godstone into the necklaces and glyphs, without Ritual and without the guidance of the Old Gods. Vorallon chooses his own destiny as well.
Lorace, you alone hear me now, my warden, my most beloved. We will not fail in this figh
t, we must not. The Others are coming soon, I hear their call, but we fight this battle on our own, they will not arrive until it is too late. After our victory, we may bend our wills to the restoration of my sparks and the awakening of my brothers so that I may take my place with the Others. Love and fight, you are the best at both, my warden. Speak and I shall hear, act and I shall see, love and I shall feel.
Vorallon’s surging presence retreated and Lorace swayed against the momentum of the ship as strength and love welled up in him. Iris slowly removed the circle of godstone, his symbol and the essence of Vorallon, from her finger and placed it back upon the chain at her breast. Her eyes meet his and her face broke into a wide smile before she launched into his arms to embrace him.
Falraan giggled, wrapping her arms around her mate. “Tornin, you are the spirit of Elena reborn. You were such a lovely woman—I do not know whether to be jealous of you or strangely passionate.”
“Elena was no match for your beauty, Fal,” Tornin said. “I am faster now. That dragon would never be able to catch me.”
Vorallon was aware of so much,” Sir Rindal said. “The Others must be the Old Gods, but who are his brothers? Why does love and fighting give him warmth?”
Iris glanced at Lorace, agreeing in silence not to discuss what they knew of other worlds and stars, but the paladin’s last question was an important revelation.
“It is the balance,” Iris told them all. “When he shows us love and fighting he means purity and corruption, calm and rage, the balance between those two extremes creates an energy which he thrives upon. That energy brought him to awareness. The Lords of Balance are the wardens he describes. Too much of either extreme weakens him, weakens us.”
“I do so want to destroy that castle,” Lorace said. “Melt every stone into slag or bombard it with rocks that will blast it to pieces.” He sighed. “I will heed Hethal’s warning. He does not show us a risen Kamunki at least. But perhaps it is too soon, that may be something that happens in the future.”
“Lorace, I think he does show us exactly that,” Iris said. “The Devourer is Kamunki risen again. He describes the pain the Devourer causes him as the same only worse. Could the spirit of Tezzirax actually be Kamunki’s spirit? The Devourer walked about the throne room as though he had come home—he even said something to that effect.”
“You are right,” Lorace said. “The demon Tezzirax bore a resemblance to Kamunki we just saw. Let us hope that his gift over stone remains latent and unavailable.”
It had grown dark while they communed with Vorallon and discussed what they had learned. Sailors passed among them, delivering a ration of food and drink.
Oen rejoined them, with his brother and Hethal in tow. “Lorace, we approach the blight once more. It no longer retreats before us.”
“It retreats no further,” Lehan confirmed with a sad shake of his head.
Lorace squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “It is time then,” he said as he reached out and forged a link with every warrior, every dwarf, and every elf—all the beloved sparks. He reached out to Halversome, the Keth Forest, and into Vlaske K’Brak. Every living spirit he could find in Erenar through their connection with Vorallon. Almost everyone—Micah he left alone. You may need all your strength, Micah.
“Oh my,” Falraan exclaimed as the sheer volume of spirit grew.
“Lorace, this is amazing,” Iris said in a low whisper. “This is everyone! One massive concert.”
He shook his head. “It is everyone, and they are painfully few.”
Lorace shared his shifted sight to all, revealing the true blackness and emerald of the blight. He gestured toward the priests holding the glyphs and bright beams of blue-white light began sweeping back and forth across the sickly black mass of it, driving it back and cutting into it. The ships flew forward into the widening breach.
Far past the storm clouds and the blight, the sun dipped below the unseen horizon. Lorace saw this in the eyes of each elf; he could feel it from their spirits. Time is so short!
Blackdrake Castle loomed at last, a massive monument to abyssal night.
The blight rose back to meet them, it withdrew its long arms from Ousenar to pile up mountainously before them. It rebuilt everywhere as fast as it could be cut away; flowing in an endless torrent from the black stone and the vast landmass it had covered. It began to circle in behind, enclosing them within its grip.
“Sir Rindal!” Lorace commanded, “Guide some of our will to the glyphs, but only as much as we need to keep the blight back, do not show our true strength.”
The paladin channeled willpower from the concert of spirits into the glyphs, intensifying the beams until they penetrated deeper, then entirely through the blight. Lorace nodded at the great care Sir Rindal took to guide the concert. It was going to be a long battle, and they would need their strength to last.
Massive stone quays groped out into the sea from a jagged shore above which Blackdrake loomed. Lorace lowered the galleys into the water, checking first to ensure that there were no blighted fish or other warped, undead presences. Everything was deserted, but for the blight. It bubbled up out of the castle in oozing surges that the glyph beams cut apart. Once his survey confirmed that nothing lurked nearby, he gave the command to disembark.
“Oen, see that none of those beams hit the castle itself,” Lorace cautioned as everyone began disembarking onto the broad gray stonework. The priests worked carefully with one another, ensuring that there are always two at hand for each glyph, one wielding it while the other guided their steps.
Prince Wralka’s dwarven fighters, in their heavy plate armor and large rectangular shields, formed up at the landward end of the quay, their wariness and preparedness a blessing to everyone.
The priests continued their work with the blue-white beams while the galleys emptied and the elven and human forces assembled behind the tight ranks of dwarves.
“Adwa-Ki, keep your scouts close behind the dwarves, my sight will be our scout,” Lorace commanded as he shared a view clear to the yawning castle gateway itself.
A broad avenue climbed in three switchbacks from the quays to a wide parade ground on the cliff top above. A collection of slum buildings, shacks of wood and stone, lined the avenue, giving Lorace pause.
“Hethal, are those buildings on the cliff part of Blackdrake Castle which I must not destroy?” Lorace asked the monk who stood with Lehan beside him.
“I am sure I do not know what you mean,” Hethal answered with a loose shrug.
That is the answer I hoped for. Lorace turned to Falraan, “They know about our fire already. Would you burn those buildings to ash please?”
The red of her spirit surrounded every structure that clung to the cliff and contracted. The wood blasted into fiery incandescence. The stonework took only a few more moments to melt and pulverize. Lorace spared a look toward Falraan and saw that she again bore the ring of her necklace upon her finger. He nodded to her and she smiled with a wink.
“Was that you or Vorallon?”
“It was all me, but I feel his presence,” Falraan said. “He is ready.”
Lorace called to dwarven monarch, “Prince Wralka, have your warriors set the pace if you please, we only have tonight.”
They moved onto the ascending avenue while the falling snow continued hissed and spit upon the red-hot remains of the slums. The blizzard of snow cooled the cherry red stones, causing some of them to crack and shatter. Several of the dwarves, no strangers to the forges of Vlaske K’Brak, chuckled and chortled at such a poor display of annealing.
“Nothing in them,” Sir Rindal observed.
“Just wanted to make sure,” Lorace said.
After few barked commands from their Prince, the dwarves broke into a rapid march.
-in Ousenar
Marek blinked his bleary eyes at the silence around him. He awoke with his throat swollen from thirst and his hand lashed to Andrigar’s, but the only thing he could focus on was the silence. The voi
ce of gibbering hunger in the air was gone. The pain that had lashed at him, pouring into him from the same surrounding presence was likewise gone.
He wanted to shout his relief to the stars overhead, though only a raspy groan came out through his cracked lips.
Cold and stiffness had permeated to the core of Marek’s being. Andrigar stirred beside him, a warm, comforting presence. Another presence was missing. He lay flat on his back on the sandy ground, when he should feel the solid warmth of Palla, and hear the destrier’s deep breaths. Palla was gone.
Marek turned his head from side to side, looking up and down the dry wash, but there was no sign of the great white horse in Voradin’s full moonlight.
“Andrigar,” he called, a bare whisper of a sound. Where everything else was cold, his captain shed warmth through the hand lashed to his and all along his body, through his leathers and cloak.
He worked at moistening his throat, pressing the sides of his tongue against his teeth until enough saliva formed to swallow.
“Andrigar,” he repeated, louder this time. “It is gone, the thing is gone.”
The man did not reply. Marek propped himself up on one elbow, digging it painfully into gravel. Andrigar slept, moonlight showing the flicker of his pupils beneath pale eyelids. He lifted his free hand to his captain’s face and felt dry, feverish heat.
“No!” Marek climbed to his knees. Twining the fingers of his bound hand with Andrigar’s, he pulled both free of their cloaks.
He clapped Andrigar’s hand between both of his. “Wake up. You have to wake up.”
The captain’s eyes fluttered open, pale and luminous. They struggled to focus on him. “Marek?”
“It is gone.” His smile was a grimace of dry, cracked lips. “I no longer hear it around us.”
Andrigar’s head turned and his eyes rolled. “Palla?”
Marek shook his head. “I do not know.”
chapter 14
Gifts of Vorallon: 03 - Lord of Vengeance Page 13
