Pug said, “A
shapeshifter!”
Ryath came
toward them, and her voice was musical. “It is not known to
men, that we may come and go in their society at will. And only the
greater dragons have the art. That is why thy people count our kind
diminished, for we know it is better to look like this when
confronting men.”
Tomas said,
“While I can appreciate such beauty, she’ll cause quite a
stir when we return home unless we find her some clothing.”
Ryath raised a
lovely white arm and suddenly was attired in a yellow and gold
travelling gown. “I may accoutre myself as I wish, Valheru. My
arts are far mightier than thou suspectest.”
“This is
true,” agreed Macros. “When I lived with Rhuagh he taught
me magics unknown to any other mortal race. Never underestimate the
scope of Ryath’s skills. She has more than fang, flame, and
talon to meet opposition.”
Pug regarded the
lovely woman and found it difficult to believe that moments before
she had bulked larger than the rooftops of buildings. He looked hard
at Macros. “Gathis once said you were always complaining about
so much to learn and so little time to learn it. I think I’m
beginning to understand.”
Macros smiled.
“Then you are truly beginning your education, Pug.”
Macros glanced about them, an almost triumphant expression upon his
face, a fiery spark in his eyes.
Pug said, “What
is it?”
“We were
trapped, and we had no hope of victory. We still face the possibility
of failure, Pug, but now at least we may take a hand - and we have a
small chance of victory. Come, we have a long journey ahead.”
The sorcerer led
them down the pathway, passing the shimmering rectangles. Between the
rectangles were the rapidly receding stars of the new creation.
Slowly the grey of rift-space was creeping about them. “Macros,”
said Pug, “what is this place?”
“The
strangest place of all, even compared to the City Forever. It is
called the Universe Hall, the Star Walk, the Gateway Path, or, most
often, the Hall of Worlds. To the majority who pass through it, it is
simply the Hall. We have plenty of time to discuss many things as we
walk. We shall return to Midkemia. But there are a few things I need
to tell you first.”
“Such as?”
asked Tomas.
“Such as
the true nature of the Enemy,” said Pug.
“Yes,
there is that,” agreed Macros. “I’ve spared you
some things until the last, for if we couldn’t get free of that
trap, why burden you? But now we must ready ourselves for the final
confrontation, so you must have the rest of the truth.”
Both sorcerers
looked at Tomas, who said, “I don’t understand your
meaning.”
“Much of
your past life is still hidden from you, Tomas. It is time for those
veils to be lifted.”
He halted their
walking and reached out his hand, speaking a strange word as he
covered Tomas’s eyes. Tomas stiffened as he felt memories
returning.
A world spun
through the void, orbiting a warm, nurturing star. Upon it life
flourished in abundance and variety. Two beings straddled the world,
each with an assigned task. Rathar took the multitudes of the fibres
of life and power, and with care she wove each into the complex
latticework of Order, forming a mighty single braided cord. Opposite
Rathar stood another, Mythar, who gripped upon the cord, and with
terrible wanton frenzy he tore apart the strands, letting them fly
about in Chaos, until Rathar seized the strands and again wove them
together. Each followed the dictates of his or her nature and to all
others was indifferent. They were the Two Blind Gods of the
Beginning. Such was the nature of the universe when it was in its
infancy. In the endless process of the two deities’ work, tiny
strands of the fibres had eluded Rathar, falling to the soil of the
world below. From these had come the most wondrous of creation’s
magic: life.
Ashen-Shugar was
pulled from his mother’s womb by the ungentle hands of the
moredhel midwife. Hali-Marmora drew her sword and slashed the
umbilical that tied her son to her. Her face was drawn with the pain
of birth as she snarled, “That is the last you’ll have
from me without a struggle.” The moredhel ran with the newborn
Valheru and handed it over to an elf who waited without the mountain
hall.
The elf knew his
duty. No Valheru lived without struggle. It was the way of things.
The elf carried the silent baby, who had not uttered a sound since
birth. The infant had been born aware, a tiny thing, but not one
without power.
The elf reached
the place he had selected and left the baby exposed atop the rocks,
facing the setting sun, unclothed and uncovered.
The infant
Ashen-Shugar regarded his surroundings, names and concepts growing
with each passing minute. A scavenger came sniffing toward the
infant, and with a mental scream of rage the tiny Valheru sent it
scurrying.
Toward evening a
creature flew high above, soaring on broad wings. It regarded the
thing upon the rocks and wondered if it was food. Circling lower, it
was suddenly called upon by the infant.
Ashen-Shugar saw
the giant eagle as it circled and knew it, that it was his creature
to command. In primitive images he ordered the giant bird to land,
then to hunt. Within minutes the bird returned with a flopping river
fish, twice the baby’s size, which it shredded with beak and
talon, giving the scraps to the baby. As it was for all his kind,
Ashen-Shugar’s first meal was raw, bloody flesh.
For the first
night the great eagle covered the infant with her wings, as she would
her own young. Within days a dozen birds cared for the baby.
The Valheru
grew, quickly, far faster than the children of other races. Within a
summer’s span the child could run down a deer, killing it with
a stunning blast of the mind, and eating its flesh after tearing it
from the carcass with bare hands.
Other minds
occasionally touched the infant’s, who would pull back.
Instinctively he knew his own kind were the beings to be feared most,
until he had sufficient power to carve his own place in their
society.
His first
conflict came as he ended his first year with the giant eagles.
Another youth, Lowris-Takara, the so-called King of the Bats, arrived
in the dead of night, using his servants to locate the youthful
Ashen-Shugar. They struggled, each seeking to absorb the power of the
other, but Ashen-Shugar finally prevailed. With the powers of
Lowris-Takara added to his own, Ashen-Shugar began seeking out fit
opponents. He hunted other youths, as Lowris-Takara had hunted him,
and seven others fell before him. He grew in strength and power,
taking the title Ruler of the Eagles’ Reaches, and flew upon
the back of a giant bird in the hunt. He tamed the first of the
mighty dragons he would ride, and after destroying his mother in
battle, he took her hall as his own. For years he grew in stature,
and soon he was acknowledged one of the mightiest of his race.
He hunted and
took sport with his moredhel women, and occasionally mated with one
of his own kind when the heat came upon her and powerful lusts
overrode the battle urge he felt toward his own kind. Of those unions
only two offspring survived. His first child was Alma-Lodaka, whom he
fathered in his early days, and the second was Draken-Korin, who
resulted from his mating with Alma-Lodaka. Matters of relationship
meant nothing to the Valheru, save as points of reference.
He raided across
the heavens with his brethren when the need for plunder rose up
within them like a thing of mindless want. He took his eldar servants
with him, riding behind him on the backs of his dragons, to catalogue
and care for his plunder. He knew the universe, and it trembled at
the thunder of the Dragon Host when they roared into the skies. Other
star-spanning races challenged the Valheru, but none survived. The
Contemplators of Per, with their powers to manipulate the stuff of
life, were cast down and their secrets lost with them. The Tyrant of
the Cormoran Empire sent forth the might of a thousand worlds. Ships
the size of cities sped through the void to unleash mighty engines of
war upon the invaders. The Dragon Lords obliterated them without
hesitation, and the Tyrant died screaming in the lowest basement of
his palace while his world was destroyed above him. The Masters of
Majinor and their dark magic were swept away by the Dragon Host. The
Grand Alliance, the Marshals of Dawn, the Siar Brotherhood, all
attempted to resist. All were destroyed. Of all who stood before the
Valheru, only the Lorekeepers of the Aal, the supposed first race,
managed to avoid destruction, but even the Aal could not oppose the
Dragon Host. In the multitudes of universes, the Valheru were
supreme.
For ages
Ashen-Shugar lived as his people had always lived, fearing none, and
worshipping only Rathar, She who was called Order, and Mythar, He who
was called Chaos, the Two Blind Gods of the Beginning.
Then came the
call, and Ashen-Shugar went to meet with his brethren. It was an odd
call, one unlike any before, for there was no bloodlust rising in his
breast to take them beyond the stars to raid other worlds. Instead it
was a call to meeting, where the Valheru would gather, to speak to
one another. It was a strange concept.
Upon the plain,
south of the mountains and the great forest, they stood in a circle,
the hundreds who were the race. In the centre stood Draken-Korin, who
called himself Lord of Tigers. Two of his creatures waited one at
each hand, powerful arms crossed, their tiger faces set in fierce
snarls. They were as nothing to the Valheru, only posing as a
reminder that Draken-Korin was, by commonly held opinion, the
strangest of their kind. He had ideas of new things.
“The order
of the universe is changing,” he said, pointing to the heavens.
“Rathar and Mythar have fled, or have been deposed, but for
whatever cause, Order and Chaos have no more meaning. Mythar let
loose the strands of power and from them the new gods arise. Without
Rathar to knit the strands of power together, these beings will seize
that power and establish an order. It is an order we must oppose.
These gods are knowing, are aware, and are challenging us.”
“When one
appears, kill it,” answered Ashen-Shugar, unconcerned by
Draken-Korin’s words.
“They are
our match in power. For the moment they struggle among themselves,
seeking each dominion over the others as they strive to gain mastery
of that power left by the Two Blind Gods of the Beginning. But that
struggle will end and then shall our existence be threatened. They
will
turn their might upon us.”
Ashen-Shugar
said, “What cause for concern? We fight as we have before. That
is the answer.”
“No, there
needs be more. We must fight in harmony, not each alone, lest they
overwhelm us.”
Of late, an odd
voice had come to Ashen-Shugar, a voice with a name. The name was
lost upon him now, but the voice spoke.
You must be apart
.
The Ruler of the
Eagles’ Reaches said, “Do what you will. I will have none
of it.” He ordered his mighty golden dragon Shuruga into the
sky and flew home.
Time passed, and
Ashen-Shugar would occasionally return to the site of his brethren
working. A strange thing, like the cities on other worlds, was
fashioned by magic arts and the work of slaves. In it the Valheru
resided, even as it was being fashioned. As never before in their
history, they became for a time a cooperative society of beings,
their combative nature stemmed by a compact, a truce. It was alien to
Ashen-Shugar.
Shortly before
the city was completed, Ashen-Shugar sat upon his dragon’s
back, regarding the work. It was a windy day, bitter cold as winter
approached.
A roar from
above caused Shuruga to trumpet a reply.
Do we
fight?
asked the gold dragon.
“No. We
wait.”
Ashen-Shugar
ignored the disappointment he sensed in Shuruga. Another dragon,
black as coal, landed and cautiously approached Ashen-Shugar.
“Has the
Ruler of the Eagles’ Reaches finally come to join us?”
asked Draken-Korin, his black and orange striped armour glinting in
the harsh light as he dismounted.
“No. I
simply watch,” answered Ashen-Shugar, dismounting also.
“You alone
have not agreed.”
“Joining
to plunder across the cosmos is one thing, Draken-Korin. This . . .
this plan of yours is madness.”
“What is
this madness? I know not of what you speak. We are. We do. What more
is there?”
“This is
not our way.”
“It is not
our way to let others stand against our will. These new beings, they
contest with us.”
Ashen-Shugar
looked skyward, regarding those signs that indicated Draken-Korin was
correct about the struggle for power between the newly aborning gods.
“Yes, that is so.” He remembered those other star-faring
races they had faced, the mortal beings who had fallen before the
Dragon Host. “But they are not like others. They also are
formed from the very stuff of this world, as are we.”
“What does
that matter? How many of our kin have you killed? How much blood has
passed your lips? Whoever stands against you must be killed, or kill
you. That is all.”
“What of
those left behind, the moredhel and the elves?” He used the
terms that had come to differentiate between the slaves of the
household and the slaves of the fields and woods.
“What of
them? They are nothing.”
“They are
ours.” Ashen-Shugar felt a strange presence within himself and
knew the other, the one whose name often eluded him, was causing him
to be filled with alien cares.
“You have
grown strange under your mountains, Ashen-Shugar. They are our
servants. It is not as if they possessed true power. They exist for
our pleasure, nothing more. What concerns you?”