Read Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One Online
Authors: Travis I. Sivart
“Brother, use that head you so pride yourself on having,” Cyrus mocked. “Who protected you on your lone journey from Humbrey? Why do you think no one ever attacked you in the night in Edgewater? Why did the werewolves turn away from easy prey in Red City? Who drew the Dasism away from your camp when you were hunted and didn’t know it? It was me. I am part of you, and if you are with Jonath, then so am I.”
Cyril nodded as the others watched him. He held out the key towards his brother. Cyrus reached out and took the key, his rough fingers touching his brother’s.
“Jonath protect you, brother,” Cyrus rumbled, and before Cyril could answer he turned and ran towards the chasm and launched himself into the air. They watched in amazement as the huge man sailed across the forty-foot gap. His arms windmilled, and his legs seemed to still run, even though there was nothing but air under him. Cyrus slammed into the stone wall, catching the spear with one huge mitt. He reached into the small niche and placed the key into the depression that had been made for it. Looking back at his brother, he let go of the spear and dropped. Cyril ran forward shouting. Rogen lurched towards him to stop him. They watched as his brother disappeared into the mist of the rapids below.
An unearthly grinding noise issued from the massive drawbridge as the locks released and it began its slow decent. Tiny rocks and debris from bird and animal nests fell away as it lowered. The gargantuan chains groaned as their ancient purpose was once again put to use.
“You should definitely put one of those things on this side,” Gruedo said.
The three stared at the colossal portal as it opened for the first time in three hundred years. The ground shook as it settled into the groove that had been carved for it over six hundred years ago.
“Our friends need us,” said Cyril. “We can’t help them as we are; let’s hope there is something inside that can help.”
With no further discussion the three set across the drawbridge, stopping only to retrieve the key. The three entered Silver Castle. The entry foyer was grand, ten meters across and twenty meters tall. Marble columns lined the wall, and an altar made of platinum was at the far side, where hallways went to the left and right. Words were carved into the stone above it,
‘All who enter with honor, shall have sanctuary. This humble keep shall protect the land, and all those who hold other’s safety above their own.’
Globes of light on the columns lit as the trio stumbled towards the shrine. Upon reaching it, Cyril fell to his knees - Rogen doing the same, as Gruedo looked around in wonder - and began to pray to Jonath.
“Jonath, god of the element of earth, protector of the people, and keeper of honor beyond law, I beseech you to bring your gaze to this place and protect the people without your castle. Send your just strength and mighty sentence from this place to judge those that bring destruction and death to this place.”
It grew dark inside the transparent dome as the small demonic forms covered it again. Cite’s head throbbed, and he felt the psychic intrusions from the remaining Troöds building again. He had lain Dawn on the ground. Unsure how much longer he would last, he prepared his final assault. The telekinetic shield had shrunk until he was kneeling and had pulled Dawn’s knees up against her chest.
A silvery burst of light outside of the dome washed across the landscape. Cite covered his eyes, unsure what this attack would bring. When he looked again, the psychic shelter was no longer covered and the sun shone down upon them. Kez’et-dual was screaming and had taken to the air. It ranted about it being too late now.
The Troöds, their small demons obliterated, stared towards the castle in fear. As one, they turned and fled. Down the hill and into the woods they went. Cite looked at the road to the castle but saw nothing. Hours later, when he was finally able to see something, it would be one of his finest memories and he would review it often for the rest of his life.
“No one wants to know what happens in a story, or wants it to end, more than the character in the story.”
Wanderly
5854 – Witen – Quebal – Ginof
The hooded figure stood in the mild winter wind watching the city bloom with life in a season when things were supposed to shrivel and withdraw. Shulyar City, once known as Silver City, once again had a heartbeat of life. The figure smiled sadly, knowing that what he had set in motion was for the best, but it was a long and hard road ahead.
Cyril brought Captain Dorvick to the city to oversee the rebuilding of the populace. Ships carried word days after the Castle had been opened and people had been coming ever since. The first pilgrims arrived on foot that morning. A trio of priests from Rayr City came to run the church and set up the legal system. Men from the surrounding ports came across land to claim their lost birthrights. More came with each passing day.
Someone suggested changing the name of the city back to its original name, but Cyril pushed to keep it the same, in honor of the Dasism that had befriended the human people once, and so recently died for them. Cyril spent most of his time helping with the reopening of the city. Some suggested he should be the Lord Father of the church of Jonath, but he declined the opportunity saying that Jonath had other plans for him. That post was for someone older and wiser who would not do foolhardy things, like rush into ancient forests full of dangers.
Cite spent his time in quiet meditation or poring through the libraries he found. He had aged two decades from the dark magics which Kala the Black had used. He regained strength slowly, but his hair was now tinted with grey and his face showed lines that a young man wouldn’t have. He had a haunted look as he watched the people filtering into the city. He preferred the quiet, private halls of books to the noise and activity of the town. Dreams came to him every night; most of them memories from other people that had once lived in this city in other times. He often sought the others when companionship was needed.
Dawn and Gruedo traveled to Baythyzium City to ask for help. The pirate stayed there for a week to set up the sea trade, sending missives to Nigh Port, Giant Gaol, March, Point, and many other coastal cities. The Lady Luck arrived shortly before she returned to Silver City. Her reunion with her uncle and his new crew was amusing. He had taken on a much larger crew, feeling the need to step up their campaign against Malvornick; plus, he would need someone to man the ballista and catapult now that he had lost his wizard. He decided that he would not be Captain Redblood; rather he would go by his first name and be known as Tildan the Giant, spreading the tale that he had blood from Mondoar, Gallix, the island where giants reputedly lived in the cities, in his veins. He told Dawn with a wink that he could never live up to the reputation she had created as Captain Redblood. Tildan took it as a personal charge to deliver the news of Dawn’s adventures and conquests to every ship captain, port, or fish that would listen.
Gruedo was at the height of her game, and had led the first people back to the legendary city. She reveled in the glory, strutting around with her thumbs hooked in her belt. She encouraged the first pub to reopen and popped the inaugural bung of a tun of well-aged wine. The huge barrel that held over two hundred and fifty gallons of wine was drained quite a bit that first night of celebration. Cyril had it corked the next day, stating it should be opened every year on this day in remembrance. Cyril asked her to head the initial interviews for merchants until someone qualified arrived to do the job. Ignoring the subtle insult, the young woman took to it with zest. She felt by spring the markets would be booming with wares, cries of hawkers, and money. She made quite a tidy profit herself, through bribes, and other fees. But she knew there was more to do, and didn’t like leaving loose ends.
Rogen was quiet most of the time, staying out of the way except when someone came to him. He was in awe of the castle, and most of his days were spent wandering and exploring. Cyril put the older man in charge of mapping and opening the structure, warning the Rokairn to take it slowly. That suited Rogen fine; he enjoyed the methodical cataloging of rooms, goods, and architecture. The only time Rogen socialized was when the people assigned to him turned the conversation away from the task at hand, when he met with his four travel companions, or once when he met a hooded figure outside the gate when he was returning to the castle.
The next night all five sat in a small private dining hall. Rogen explained the prophecy he had received close to a century ago that had led him to travel with Cite and told of his recent meeting with a man outside the city. Cite added that his dreams had become more urgent, telling him that his journey did not end here; he had to go north to the Kingdom of Crowns. Cyril nodded, understanding. He would be going, too, since it brought him to his homeland; the news from there had been troubling of late. Dawn knew this would bring them closer to Malvornick and said she also would be going. Gruedo stood and raised her goblet in toast to the band of five. Rogen and Cyril sighed at the young woman’s enthusiasm, but they all raised their drinks in return.
The cloaked figure stepped through a doorway in the burgeoning marketplace and stepped out into the shadows of a cold throne room. He watched as the bejeweled nobleman pointed at maps on a table and an emaciated man leaned over, dripping gravy from the meat he held. When Duke Malvornick snapped at Rondarius and wiped at the spill, the wispy haired man backhanded him, sending him across the room. A gaunt zombie started forward towards the fallen man, only to be stopped by the necromancer at the table, and told that he could eat the dog now. The scrawny dog barely heard the command as she stared at the hooded man and growled. No one else noticed. The man at the table was too busy crying uncontrollably about the mess, and the man on the ground glared with smoldering hatred.
The cloaked figure stepped back into the shadows and appeared in a cool room of a wine sellers shop. A single man sat in the room, his dark brown leather cape thrown over one shoulder. The seated man lifted his golden chalice, sipped at the steaming mulled wine and said over his shoulder, “I was expecting you; my spy told me you were on the way. Join me for a drink?” The newly arrived man stepped in front of the table and pulled out a chair. “What now?” Nomed asked.
“A wise bard once said, there are neither beginnings nor endings of stories, just a turning point where the next tale takes over. This is no different,” was the figure’s reply as he lowered his hood and sipped the proffered wine.
“If you do not learn from history, then you are doomed to repeat it.”
Proverb from the beginning of time
5999 – Milwen – Talsā – Lasin
Thunder rumbled in the distance as the approaching storm swallowed the night sky. Cold winds cut through the hot air that lingered from the day. The lightning in the distance raced through cloudbanks that drew closer and dropped lower with each passing moment. The aroma of blooming flowers was carried away, replaced by the smell of rot and taint.
Jack Tucker stared at the body and knew it had to be dead. It was not quite mutilated, but it was torn. A leg bent behind the torso, bone showing through the skin of the thigh as well as the shin, an arm that shone purple even in the dim light, and the missing eyes. It was those empty sockets that Jack stared at with horrified fascination.
The surprise of finding the corpse was swept away by fleeting images of some memory that had long been forgotten or buried. Like seeing a candle on the next hilltop at night, only for it to be snuffed, leaving you unsure if it was really there, or if it was your eyes adjusting as they cleared the remnants of dreams and sleep. He clucked his tongue as he strained to grasp the thought that eluded him. Relaxing and letting his mind go blank, he knew that the thought would surface if he did not disturb the waters of thought by mentally thrashing about. Slowly it came to him in pieces. It had been far away from here but he could not quite grasp where. It had been someone close to him, maybe family or a lover. Another body, someone he had known. He had found them outside, also broken and torn.
The memory broke off as a crack of thunder, this time closer and accompanied by lightning, forced him back to his present situation. He would be drenched if he did not find some sort of shelter soon. He wore the loose clothes of a traveler. He had journeyed long and far since his youth, never seeming to stop for long and never settling down. He began walking again with long strides that devoured the road and brought him to a new place quicker than most others would think possible.
He veered back to the road from which he had detoured, leaving the body where he found it. He was not one to loot the dead, but was practical enough that a cursory inspection of it showed there was nothing worth salvaging. The wind whipped dust devils from the road into the air, and they danced about unnaturally, as he watched. There was more to this storm than just wind and rain, he realized. Storms like this were rare now; at least rarer than they had been a decade ago or a century ago if the tales told by bards, old men, and drunks were to be believed. Most people did not believe weather like this existed anymore but he had seen other storms and darker things that came with conditions like this. It had magics in it.
He had always been fascinated by magic, though he had little talent for any of the five types of enchantment, he felt he might have a touch of the mage hidden within him. Though he had never been able to produce what was considered consistent results at any of the trademark abilities, like telepathy, telekinesis, foresight, or any of the other talents rumored to go along with the gifts of a mind mage, he had luck. Most scholars would argue for hours if luck were an unconscious use of the mind magics. Jack had a good direction sense, was a good judge of character, and instinctively grasped a situation to make the best of it. Again, these traits were not necessarily magic, not unless one could use them at will.
He watched the storm roll across the Ground Heights Mountains in the south and begin to spread across the plains. He headed south along the Seariver, a huge powerful river that was more than three miles across at its narrowest. Misty River Hold, which was his goal, was another four days journey. He hoped to reach a small village a few miles to the south before the winds and rains began in earnest. He was traveling across what had been a vast swamp just a century before, but now was mostly desert. The Talisman had brought changes, and this was just one of many. It was called the Lost Swamp then, and a mystical library had been hidden in it, the Library of Time. It was found briefly, but was soon lost to the ever-shifting sands of the Lost Sands, the new name of this area.
The raging clouds drew closer. Any elementalist would give their eyeteeth to be in this storm. He knew enough about magics to know about the ley lines from which an elementalist drew energies. He also could guess that a storm like this would follow those magical lines of power and that he must be close to one, or even a nexus of ley lines. He would even go as far as to guess a storm like this could burn out, redirect, or create new lines.
He wondered about the tales from two centuries ago, before the Talisman scarred the heavens. How much had the world changed since that celestial horror took up residence in the sky? Cities had crumbled. Kingdoms had been overrun and their people scattered. Whole races had been eradicated or had disappeared. Tales told of dozens of humanoid races that had once lived together, and not always in peace. In the scheme of things, the Rokairn had been a minor race hidden in the mountains, or so it was said. It was hard to imagine that now because of the major military power they had become. They brought the metals for trade. They protected the civilized people from what lived east of the Rolling Mountains, keeping the Legions of Khelikian from overrunning them. They brought order wherever they went. It was said that the Aeifain used to do that, slim and willowy creatures that always thought of humans as a lesser race.
The sky split open and a torrent of rain drenched him. The clouds parted in the sky where the Talisman was. The rain did not touch the land under that scar. The stars showed beyond them, but as he watched they became dimmer. He saw the sickly yellow disfigurement that was the comet. The stars faded behind it, and then winked out. One by one the celestial lights wavered and died within the blackened swath. The cut in the clouds steadily made its way towards him, seeming to be searching for him or any life at all.
Tearing himself away from the sight in front of him, he spun in a circle and looked for shelter. He saw a spire in the distance to the west, perhaps miles away, or perhaps less than one mile. A mist rose from the ground and the distance was distorted. He had no time to wonder about the mist’s sudden appearance; he began to run towards the structure. It was an odd needle shape, thick at the bottom and narrowing as it disappeared into the thick clouds covering the sky above it. He could see a winding ramp traveling in orderly circles around the outside of it. From this distance it was a dull gray and smooth.
He felt the ground rumble. A second noise came to his ears. It was a distant grinding noise, a churning with a sharp edge to it. He had heard this sound before, but never so strong that it shook the earth. It was the sound of the minions of Khelikian, thousands of insects that were magically altered. No one knew by what. They appeared soon after the Talisman had materialized in the sky, right about the same time as the legions of dead rose from their graves and began walking the land. Either force was certain death to any human. They had crumbled cities and kingdoms. What hope could one man alone in the wilderness have? He ran.
Locking his eyes on the spire in the distance, his legs pumped in rhythm with his arms, and the ground disappeared under his great strides. He could see flashes of the insects along the ground ahead. There were certain magical bugs that generated heat, light, or even magical energies. They were closer and that urged him to run even faster. As he traveled, the creatures fell to the sides and behind him, becoming a pincer that was trying to close on him, a black, flowing, clicking, rustling pincer made of thousands of hard-shelled insects.
When he focused on the tower, things became surreal. His vision sharpened and everything became crisper. The night became gray and previously unseen colors that had faded in the darkening storm became muted tones, pale shades of their original colors. With his mind flying ahead of him, covering the distance to the tower that reached up to the very heavens themselves, he brought it into view and closer by miles. He could see the evenly spaced doors. He had heard of this place and now recalled stories; it was called simply the Highest Spire and had been made by the Gods or some ancient race. It contained magical doors that led to other places, other times, or even other worlds if tales were to be believed.
As he stared at the Spire his vision shifted again, but not as subtlety as before. His entire field of vision filled with images of rain, blending with the rain he was already seeing. It covered the ground and the hills to the south unnaturally fast. A wall of water rose up and rolled towards him. He was unsure if this was a dream or real, but the water he was running through was now ankle deep. Flocks of birds took to the sky, fleeing weather that would consume the whole land. Wind plucked them from the sky and smashed them into the rising water that reached up with a life of its own and snapped them out of the air like a shark that found the delight of leaping for its meals. A herd of deer bolted out of a stand of trees, as the two realities mixed showed things that should not be in the desert through which he was running. The storm showed no more mercy for the deer than it did for birds. Time accelerated and the corpses of deer swirled past him as he ran through the flood, now waist deep.
He knew the world would not survive this. The world would die. The mountains beyond the hills to the south disappeared in a black sheet of liquid glass that rushed towards him. A single ship showed in the distance. It was a huge ship with no masts, no oar holes and no way to steer or propel itself. But it rode the oncoming waters like a cork in a stream. The gargantuan wall of water overtook him, knocked him down and tumbled him over and over, blocking his vision.
He sat up in ankle deep water, sputtering and spitting out bits of scrub grass, once again back in the desert. He could once again see the Spire in the growing darkness and knew the water he had seen was a vision from it. The rains had passed. Perhaps the Talisman in the sky had consumed them, as it appeared to have consumed the stars in the sky around it. He felt something grip his ankle and turned to remove it. Perhaps he tripped over some unseen root while blinded by his vision of the flood. But what he saw was a fleshy rotting hand gripping his boot.
He kicked at it with his other foot, splitting its flesh and crushing its bones. The hand released him and the man scrambled to his feet. As he ran, he looked at the ground. It shifted and moved. He saw sickly white arms with bloated hands and fingers like grubs reaching up through the sand. Bodies pulled themselves up from the loose earth, skeletal and decomposing forms, forms belonging to the living dead. They lurched up in his way, clawing and reaching for him. It was like a childhood nightmare, but he could feel the cold winds pushing at the wet clothes plastered to his body. He felt their hands when they brushed against him as he dodged between the growing numbers of undead, like some game boys would play, trying to reach a goal or safe base. He heard their bodies creak as sinew and tendons that had long lain dormant were forced to work again. The worst part was the smell. He smelled the fetid rotting of flesh. It may have been the dry and dusty if it had not been for the rain. But like stagnant water added to black mold, or stirring a septic puddle that had crusted over, the stench burst forth, renewed.
He turned his head as he ran so he would not spill his last meal onto himself, but having to watch in front of him to avoid the walking dead did not allow him such a luxury. He vomited. As the last bits left him, he saw the dead falling to the ground behind him and scooping up the remnants of his meal. They greedily shoved handfuls of half-digested food and desert mud into their mouths, only to have it dribble out of a cheek, a hole in their throats, or have another dead reach into the hole that once was their stomach and scoop out what had just landed there to try to devour it themselves.
He looked for the Spire and saw it was closer. Closing his mind to the reaching, hungry hands around him, he focused on his goal. His vision swam again as his mind stretched and connected with the magical tower. He saw fires. Mountains exploded and rivers of molten rock spilled down the natural causeways, rolling in their slow but inevitable journey to the villages or cities that lay below. Forests and jungles burst into flame as the lava touched them. Birds took to the air, only to fall as they were enveloped in clouds of toxic gases spewed from the mouth of a volcano. His vision jumped from point to point, showing towns, grand marble cities, small farming communities, great ships on the ocean with a hundred men or more crowding to the rails, all as the earth overcame them. Quakes toppled buildings; rolling waves of soil threw houses high into the air. Great cracks in the ground opened and devoured carts, horses, people, houses, and anything else in its path.
He returned to the present. The dead were falling behind him, unable to keep up with their slow lumbering gait; the insects swarmed over them, ignoring them as both unnatural atrocities tried to catch him. One single man. They were trying to stop him. He now realized that the tower was sending him messages. Messages of doom, messages of the world being destroyed, and he understood it had happened before, and was about to happen again. He stared up at the Talisman. The comet that would pass by every hundred or so years had now made its home in the sky above the world. The Spire spoke to him again with a scream.
Winged horrors, crawling abominations, lumbering misshapen beasts came out of hundreds, maybe even thousands, of doors. Demons. Spawn of the planes of evil and devils. They continued to pour out of doors beyond his vision or his ability to count. Tens of thousands of them were between him and the Spire. He slowed his run, then stopped and stared. His mind stretched and reached deep into the tower; he felt its immense power and magic as it spoke to him, showing him the past once more.