Authors: Gareth K Pengelly
Sylphii swooped down, looping about him in a sparkling orbit as they spoke in melodious, dulcet tones.
“You overestimate the power of our children, Stone. Underestimate the power of the enemy.”
“How so?”
A tiny figure flitted to land on his shoulder; a woman in miniature, though with gossamer butterfly wings that flapped gently as she spoke. She looked at him with dazzling purple eyes that gazed out from behind a curtain of cascading rainbow hair.
“In this world we are everything, Stone,” she began to explain, her voice so tinkling, so vibrant, like the chiming of tiny, crystal bells. “From the stars and the planets that orbit them…”
Another tiny elfin figure landed on his other shoulder to continue the lesson.
“…to the tiniest of worms and the birds which feed on them. We are in everything. We make everything. We bestow it life, for that is our purpose.”
The first Sylphii again, now.
“But those we face are not from this universe, Stone. They are from elsewhere, a realm of fire and pain that is the opposite to ours. A world of entropy, as opposed to life. A world of despair as opposed to hope. And the power of our children wanes as they near. Such foes as the Seeress summons to guard the Isle of Storms cannot be defeated by the spirits of Earth, Water, Wind or Fire. You shall have to trust in the hearts of men and the strength of their arm.”
Stone thought back to the altercation atop the Beacon, the night of the Astral Alignment; his Councilmembers, taking him apart. Kurnos. Memphias. Ceceline. And now, inevitably, Bavard too, for he had seen the madness erupting from within. How could they hope to defeat them? Each would be empowered now, enhanced by the dark influence of their Masters. Not to the same extent as he had been, of course, for it was his very nature to channel and contain power such as…
He froze, the incredulity of the thought striking him like a splash of cold water to the face.
“Your power,” he began, tentatively, “your own power, rather than that of the spirits, it can withstand the nearness of the demons, yes?”
Water circled him, frowning.
Yes, that it can. But we cannot enter your world, not ourselves. For us to step into the real world would be to unleash apocalypse.
Stone nodded, mind racing furiously, thinking back to the Runestone Gwenna had presented him back at the Retreat.
“Yes, I understand that. But a portion of your essence can be bound within a vessel, can it not? If a vessel were strong enough, it could carry your power within it. Power enough to stand against whatever the enemy can unleash…”
The Sylphii atop his shoulders backed off, hands to their mouths in shock as they began to register the scale of his plan, flitting away on butterfly wings, leaving trails of light behind them. Fire gazed down upon him, eerie glowing eyes that floated amidst a storm of flame.
Impossible.
It stated.
Our power is limitless. You think of the Runestone with which we gifted Wrynn, yet that mighty artefact contains but an infinitesimal fraction of our might.
Water nodded in accordance.
A brave offer, Stone. But to withstand the sapping presence of the enemy you would have to possess a permanent link to us, rather than merely contain a portion of our power. You would have to become a conduit, if you will.
“It would be madness,” whistled the Sylphii, the Avatar of the Air, as they flew about the cavern on streamers of glitter. “It would be insanity. An Avatar of the Avatars. Such a thing cannot be. It would violate all laws. It would be like a candle burning with the power of the Sun.”
Silence, for a few moments, as Stone stood before the scrutiny of the Avatars, crestfallen, bereft of hope now that his last, lunatic plan had been torn down.
No.
The booming, volcanic rumble of the Earth shattered the peace.
No,
it repeated.
It would not be madness.
The rest of the Avatars turned, as one, to look up at the looming mountain.
I have felt his strength,
continued the Earth
. I know him, as I know each of my creatures. The enemy have changed him, corrupting him on the genetic level, the atomic, the quantum. But within their taint lies the key to our salvation.
A crunching, grinding rumble as the mountain sank to one knee, bending down to regard Stone with abyssal obsidian eyes. Even crouched thus, he still loomed above the gathered elements and the onyx island.
I believe that Stone can withstand our might. I believe he truly could be an ‘Avatar of the Avatars.’
Water turned to Stone, a smile beginning to creep across her face at the prospect of attempting something so daring, so insane that even the eternal elements were apprehensive at the thought.
My brother’s confidence is all I need Stone,
she told him with a gushing torrent of syllables that nearly washed him away in their excitement.
Are you really willing to do this? Are you willing to risk channelling our might? Willing to risk death for the chance of salvation?
Stone closed his eyes as he thought. Was he? He had been so many things over the years. So many incarnations. But this was a choice, it was not forced upon him. They had made that clear.
“Will I still be… me?”
Air landed atop his shoulder, stroking his cheek with a tiny, slender hand.
“You will always be you, Stone.”
He nodded.
“Then do it.”
Fire roared, filling the gargantuan cavern with his orange, incendiary glow.
Then let us begin. Let us take the weapon of our enemy and turn it against them.
***
The laughter came out in desperate fits of giggles. They knew it was madness, but the more they tried to hold it in, the harder it threatened to burst out. This East Coast wine was potent stuff…
“Crabs?”
The word sent them both into muffled hysterics yet again. Naresh wiped tears from his eyes as they settled down.
“You survive being raided by Slavers. Then you endure hauling a block up the heights of the Beacon.
Then
you escape the Clansmen that try to murder you by leaping a thousand foot drop. And out of all this, it was the
crabs
that scared you?”
“They were
big
crabs,” Jafari chuckled, as he took yet another swig from the bottle before handing it over to the Steppes man.
Naresh accepted the drink gratefully, the aching in his chest slowly beginning to subside. The silence and darkness of the cellar was comforting, a safe and sure cocoon that granted the two fugitives some respite from the horrors of the world outside. As they settled, they had time to think, each ruminating over the fates of their respective families.
“Your family,” began the Nomad. “They live in the city? Do you see them often?”
Naresh sighed.
“They live in the city, yes. But I don’t get to see them too often. Maybe once a month or so. They work us hard in the Pen and we have little time to ourselves. And we live deep beneath the Keep, in the servants’ quarters. It takes a long time to make our way up to the outside world and into the city.”
Jafari nodded in understanding, taking a bite out of a hunk of cheese they’d carved from a wheel. Rats, thought Naresh, with a smile.
“How about yourself?” he asked in turn. “When did you last see your family?”
The Nomad looked downcast at the question and Naresh guessed the answer before the other man had even spoken.
“Taken,” he replied, his heavily accented voice low, all levity gone now. “At the same time as I was. They dragged me off in a net and I was knocked out as I hit my head. The last I remember of my sisters is the looks of horror on their faces as the Savaran bore down on us.” He glanced down at the cheese in his hand, casting it aside, all appetite gone now. “I don’t suppose I’ll see them again. They could be miles away by now…”
Silence for a few moments, a war waging within Naresh as he recalled the slaughter above, only a short time ago. He thought of his family, far off in the weapons district of the city, working the forges; there was no chance they could make it all the way there. His own family would have to take care of themselves, he thought, with an inward sob. But Jafari’s sisters…
“Perhaps they’re not as far off as you might think…”
The other man looked up, frowning, a tiny glimmer of hope in his eyes, reflected by the dim light of the lamp that sat between them.
“How so?”
Naresh replied slowly as his mind raced, trying to remember the myriad routes he’d traced in the Warrens beneath the Pen.
“These tunnels we’re in; they don’t just go up and down from the docks to the kitchens – they go further beneath the Pen. Even as far as the prisons beneath the Arena and the Market…”
The Nomad leapt up, this new information lending fresh strength to weary limbs as he spoke, excitedly.
“You mean there’s a chance my sisters could be alive, here, in this city?”
The Steppes man nodded, slowly, not wanting to get his new companion’s hopes up too much, for he had seen the bloodshed above. And who knew how far the slaughter would continue?
“Perhaps. It can’t hurt to see, as long as we remain low, careful, keep ourselves safe.”
His heart hammered in his chest, terrified of this plan he was concocting, wishing he would stop talking, stop digging his own grave; yet at the same time he felt sorry for this dishevelled and filthy man who had been through so much. He knew what it was like to feel trapped and alone. He had felt it himself ever since he’d started working in the halls of the Barbarian King.
“How do we get there?”
“I know the way; I’ve had to take provisions there, once or twice.” The servant rose to his feet, unsteady thanks to the wine. “Follow me. We keep quiet and tread lightly; if we catch the attention of the Clansmen, we are as good as dead…”
***
The Plainsmen marched and Wrynn’s spirit soared. How long had it been? A century now, at least, since the Villages had gathered, mustering for war. A century, at least, since anything resembling pride had stirred in their hearts.
But the Plainsmen were on the march once more. War paints borne proudly on cheeks and chests. Noble jaws set in grim determination. Captured weapons hefted in strong arms that had long yearned to rise up against their subjugators.
The Clansmen on guard atop the walls of Pen Argyle hadn’t noticed the Raven that had flown overhead in the night sky. And why should they? ‘twas only a bird, nothing more.
Only a bird that would perch in the Keep that night, whispering into the minds of the once-proud slaves, fanning into fresh flame the old fires of honour and pride that had long since died down to ashes.
Only a bird that would transform into the looming figure of legend; Wrynn, Shaman of the Plains People. His eyes of fire burning guards to ashes; his healing hands restoring strength and hope to beaten slaves. But slaves no longer. They had risen up, at his command, overthrowing their keepers, the bulk of the Clans having been recalled to Merethia; for no-one could have expected this long-cowed and subjugated people to rise up without warning.
The Pen had been taken in an hour. The walls had rang out to victory chants not heard in a hundred years. The people had been free.
And Wrynn had given them a choice.
This world is lost, he had told them. A war is being fought, even now, in the South. Dark powers rise against the land, seeking to claim it. Time is short. You can march with us, to almost certain doom. Or you can remain here, free, content and enjoy your last days together in peace.
The choice is yours.
And this is why his heart sang. This is why, it was with a fierce pride that he marched, tall, head held high, at the head of a thousand Plainsmen, even as the small Shaman army crested the brow of the hill coming towards them.
As the vast tide of olive-skinned warriors hove into view, Gwenna turned to the awestruck Hofsted who stood, mouth agape, by her side.
“Tricks up our sleeves, my dear Lieutenant. Tricks up our sleeves…”
***
The hunger gnawed. Was this some kind of cruel punishment? Was it a way for their captors to get back at them for doing so well? For winning the favour of the crowd? The King himself?
Alann didn’t know. Either way, it had been over a day now since the last jailers had come to bring their rations. His stomach grumbled in protest, as he gazed out between the bars of the cold, dark cell, yearning for a glimpse of Clansmen bearing food.
“I think we’ve been forgotten about…”
The voice at his side belonged to Narlen. The tall Plainsman’s words had a levity to them, a sing-song nature that rendered even his most serious statements somewhat flippant. Alann liked that. It kept the men calm. He turned, gazing about at his fellow captives that lay sprawled on the floor or pacing about; Elerik, the Alatharian farmhand; rotund Jorgen, of the Hills; and the others. Nine all told, after the Barbarian had gone rogue in the arena. Nine men, captive, bound, each with their own story to tell, their own private tale of woe.
And Alann knew them all by heart.
He had made it his business to; for though he was no Prince, no King, he knew how to be a leader of men. He knew that orders were best followed if they weren’t perceived as orders at all; but rather the advice of someone known and trusted. Someone who had their best interests at heart. But it was no mere ploy to win their trust, but actual empathy that had caused him to sit and listen as the men had sat in the circle on the stone floor and learned about one another.
No, despite his thirst for revenge over the years, Alann had truly cared for the Foresters that had flocked to him, rallying about him as moths to a flame. The Foresters. His heart ached at the memory of the battle in the North. Where were they now? Was Iain leading them? Had they gone North, as he’d asked, to find aid? Had he, in fact, failed them himself by lusting after his revenge rather than leading them tactically, withdrawing with them as Iain had suggested? He shuddered, recalling the unnatural sight of Kurnos, rising, tossing aside the axe that had struck him like a man casually flicking aside a bug.
Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps one day I might get my revenge. One day happenstance might drop that chance in my lap. But till that day, I shan’t allow my own grievances to blind me to the safety of those that put their trust in me.
I shall resolve to be a better man.
He shook himself from his melancholy, aware that Narlen was standing, patiently, watching him.
“Sorry, my friend. You’re right; it does seem like they’ve forgotten us. It’s quiet…”
“Too quiet…”
The cliché came from behind them, the Farmer, sat on a stool looking down at the ground, his hands clasped together. Elerik rarely spoke, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself most of the time. When he did speak, it was because he had something to say.
“What do you mean, farmer?” enquired the Plainsman.
“Well… you focus on the jailers who come with our food. Yet, what about the Slavers bringing fresh slaves? What about the Auctioneers coming to inspect us, to see if we’ve broken yet?” He rose, slowly, to his feet, looking over at them now. “No-one has come at all. No-one. It’s as though some great calamity has occurred above. It’s as though you’re right; we have been forgotten.”
The Woodsman nodded as he recognised the truth in Elerik’s words.
“You’re right; these prisons were a-bustle with feet only yesterday. Now, nothing.”
He turned, looking out between the bars once more.
“What’s going on up there…?”
***
The campfire was slowly burning down to a pile of ashen embers that glowed a steady orange, the leaders of the Shaman army sitting about it, staring in silence into its fading light. By all rights, they should have been slumbering, now, with the men and women that lay scattered about them for a hundred yards in each direction, dozing fitfully beneath thin sheets under the gaze of an uncaring night sky. But sleep wouldn’t come easily to the gathered commanders. For the burden of destiny weighed heavily on their shoulders, heavier still than the fatigue that dragged at their eyelids.
Only Gwenna and Wrynn, out of those that circled the fire, appeared unwearied; their bodies and minds kept fresher than most by a gentle trickle of nourishment from the earth.
“You lead them to their doom, Master Wrynn…”
Arbistrath’s voice was quiet, tired from long hours of marching, but there was no accusation in his tone, no menace. He was too tired for his usual outrage. This was merely statement of fact.