Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One (36 page)

“Were you ever as carefree as her? Were any of us?” Cite asked without looking up.

The wind was whistling and the predator approached. It had long hunted the little squirrel and knew the vermin’s habits. Many meals had consisted of the rangy little rodents and this would be no different. The predator dug in its reptilian claws and rubbed at the small holes in its skull that served as ears, trying to get the high-pitched trill of the wind to quiet. The prey would hear.

The vision switched and the predator was lost in a sea of green as the point of view drew away. The forest began to shake. The rage within had been drugged and the green man awoke, thrashing from a nightmare. He could not stand and his bark-like skin was blotchy and discolored. He tried to pull himself up but his trunk-like legs snapped underneath him. He whistled to his sisters and brothers to help him; he begged for his father and mother to come and lend assistance. Then he listened.

The forest became a speck as the view drew back again. The thick peninsula in the south was shaking in anger and fear, but a silver glimmer appeared. In the north the land also shook in anger and fear as a silver glimmer disappeared. Darkness blotted the area between swamp and desert only to erupt with insect-ridden corpses. The wind whistled as the view shifted one last time to the quavering sliver of silver in the south. Then it dropped into the earth and darkness.

5854 – Ault – Quebal – Midā

When Cite woke, he knew he had been dreaming. The clarion call of trumpets drowned out the whistling in his head. He felt the pressing urge to complete what his dream had started. Sitting up, he found that Cyril and Rogen were already dressed and strapping on their armor and weapons. He followed suit and gathered his instrument, writing supplies - which he left scattered on the table - and other belongings.

As they left the sleeping room and entered the main room, Dawn was also dressing. They looked around, no one having spoken a word yet. Movement attracted their eyes to the window as Gruedo clambered in. She looked frantic, framed by the pre-dawn light outside.

“I didn’t do it,” was all the girl said.

“Do what?” Rogen asked with slow deliberation.

“Whatever they are crowing about out there. I was on the rooftops listening in on the patrols. The warning came from the north wall.” They all looked at each other; they knew what this meant.

Cite broke the silence. “Grab your bags, get it all, we go now. It is the Dasism.”

“We can’t fight if we have our bags,” Cyril said.

“We won’t fight.” Cite said as he jammed things into his bag. “I had another dream. We need to go underground and get west to the Castle. If we don’t open it soon, we won’t be able to.”

“We can’t leave them,” Cyril said as he folded his arms across his chest and glared at the mage. “We drew the enemy here, Cite.”

Rogen interrupted. “The enemy was there before, why do you think they have the walls? Cyril, follow the lad’s directions. All in this city may die; it is their choice and right. You, however, need to go to that castle. If you die here, the world begins to die.” Cyril hesitated. “Cite is a brave lad, when have you seen him run from a fight or abandon something he felt was right? Trust in your friend.”

Cyril nodded and gathered his possessions. Gruedo, who had been watching the exchange from the windowsill, followed Cyril’s example.

Kala the Black stood inside the tree line watching his army of Dasism slaves advance their column. Calling upon the dark powers of his God, Obsidian, the priest rolled the clouds over the waning moon. He shot his mind outward scanning for the positions of his minions. He would not be mocked anymore. They had ridiculed him long enough, first his own people, then the Aeifain. They said he could not be a priest of Promethene, the Goddess of Sound and Light. They said she only accepted females into her priesthood. He devoted himself to the Goddess and she accepted him. She blessed him above all others as her only son. She guided her holy sword to his hand. He was her chosen.

Then he had died. They had tricked him and used magic to do it. They had killed him and his Goddess called him to her side. He refused. He would not go. His will was too strong, stronger than that of his Goddess, and his spirit was too pure. The Aeifain sorcerers felt his grand presence. He spoke with them from beyond death and they cast their rituals and brought him back. His body was Aeifain now, pure and immortal and strong. His heart was human though, passionate, loving, and intense. He was better than either race. He was the union of both, something better. He was scorned again. As he begged for the Aeifain sorceress, Cryfalshoulsia, to become his wife she said it was against Promethene to do so and laughed at him. His friends laughed at him.

He laughed now, in the dark of the storm he had called forth with the power of Obsidian, God of Magic. This god understood how special Kala was, a unique combination of two races, creating a true heir to the world. He called upon Obsidian’s gifts again and flung dark bolts of raw energy into the wooden palisade.

Kala had left his companions in the waiting hands of Obsidian’s people in Daeth’s Pass. In the ultimate fortress built by humans, Rokairn and Aeifain waited their fate. Long ago, the Troöds had engineered the fall of that alliance and destroyed the culmination of what could have been the grandest endeavor of the three races. Kala’s naïve friends had walked into a trap.

He had traveled. Every place he stopped, he raised another tower to his great God of magic. Another Obsidian Tower rose to shadow a village, town, or city. Men came to bow at Kala the Black’s feet, begging for the secrets of the towers. They begged that he allow them to study and to learn the magic Kala gave out in the name of Obsidian. Their wish had been granted. They became the masters of the towers. They taught others of magic and gave them each a gift of Obsidian, a magical object that was created by the miraculous monolith that only the receiver could use. It opened the people to the seed of magic that Obsidian planted in them, a seed that would grow and flourish in the dark, even if they hadn’t had the gift of magic within them before. Obsidian and his followers had torn the power of magic from the Walking God, and left Him with less than half of His followers and power.

Kala had come to the Dasism, cousin to the Aeifain, in the west and showed them his gift of mixed bloodlines. They had worshipped him. Not at first though, it took proof for them to realize his greatness, for the fae had always been an arrogant people who were full of themselves. As the very humans the fae-kin had tried to help and teach, killed the leaders of the immortal beings, they finally began to understand the humans would never learn.

Then the fateful day of the Talisman arrived. Obsidian delivered that shining beacon of magic into the sky. It radiated enchantment down upon the faithful and death upon the ignorant and betrayers. Kala opened his arms and gathered the energy of the comet. His Dasism army stepped onto the field of battle and the city trembled at their silent storm.

The door burst open and Captain Dorvick saw the people he had come to warn were already prepared. The city trembled again.

“You need to go, they have come,” the captain said.

“Captain,” Rogen began, “we are sorry.”

“Don’t be. You only brought what was inevitable. If there is any hope you can bring about what you have set out to do, then it is why we are still here. This is our fight; you go to yours. I will lead you to tunnels where you can cross under the river. They are old, used decades back for smuggling supplies and men to the other towns.”

“You have done well, Dorvick,” Rogen said.

“You taught me to do no less, Master,” was all that the captain said as he turned and led the company to the tunnels.

The others exchanged glances behind the Rokairn’s broad shoulders. This was not the first time they had heard someone speak to Rogen as if they knew each other, and with a respect that spoke of more than a causal friendship.

They were joined by Sergeant Michaelson, an older man with a broad face that showed lines from years of smiling. His steel gray hair matched the gray of his eyes and the metal of his posture. He had served here at Baythyzium City for his entire military career. He had been brought here as a raw recruit, fresh from the academy in Rayr City at age fifteen. He had decided to join the service after finding his sister and mother murdered by the Dasism. Shipped out to the frontier, he had served with honor in countless skirmishes with the enemy.

When the previous sergeant was killed in action he took on the responsibility of helping train the new recruits. The men came to not only respect him, but also to see him as a favored uncle. A man of action who, when not on duty, offered kind advice as a friend; ranging from where to eat, to how to find the best flowers for a woman when growing areas were limited. For thirty-five years, he raised boys and turned them into men. He was married to the service and was loyal to his love.

They circled downward using lesser-traveled stairways. Crossing under the city was easy, though dirt occasionally sifted down onto them as the attack on the city grew in intensity. The Sergeant and Captain spoke of the attack as they led the five visitors to safety.

“They’re focusing on the northeast quadrant, even Kala the Black is there, Sir.” Michaelson reported.

“Kala himself? Can you be sure?” the Captain asked, with a glance at the others behind the soldier.

“He is the only one we have ever had reports using the types of magics that are assailing us as we speak.”

They reached a large door set into the earthen wall. It was banded with iron and made of thick wood. Dorvick turned to the group.

“I must return to my men. I will lock the door behind you and Michaelson will see you to the far end. I wish you Chanian’s speed and the Walking God’s own eye on your journey.”

“Torr guide your blades and bows and Jonath guard your back,” Rogen said as he clasped the man’s hand in both of his. The two men shared a look between them that spoke of a deeper friendship.

As Dorvick waited, Michaelson opened the door and Cyril helped drag it open because of its immense weight. They stepped through after saying their goodbyes – Michaelson and Dorvick giving one another a sharp salute - and the door banged closed and they heard it lock from the other side. It was a haunting and final sound. Dawn called upon her magic to create a small globe of flame that floated ahead of them to light the way. The walls were rough and wooden support beams were placed every couple of paces to prevent a collapse. Roots and small insects burrowed through the dirt all around them. They walked for a long time before coming to a part of the tunnel that sloped downward, deeper into the earth.

Cyril walked behind Michaelson with his spear at ready. Behind them came Dawn, who was focused on her magic. Rogen walked along looking all around, and Cite could see a look of disgust as the short man inspected every beam they passed. Gruedo walked behind everyone with her arms crossed and scratching nervously at her neck and sides as they went further into the bowels of the earth.

The scents of earth and dust blended to create a smell that was new to everyone except Rogen. The light only illuminated a few paces ahead and behind them, turning their whole world into shades of brown and grey of dirt and stones. They felt the weight of the world above them. As the ground above them shook from the attack on the city, streams of soil showered down on them, making it obvious that they could be buried under tons of earth at any moment.

“We should be under the river now,” Michaelson explained, as the shaking subsided and the humidity increased. Water dripped down the walls around them. “Not only all that earth above us, but now thousands and thousands of pounds of water rushing also. I wouldn’t want the ceiling to go here. Being buried alive is bad enough, but drowning in the depths is even worse.”

Gruedo groaned and Cite placed a hand on her arm. The mage’s touch calmed the young woman, and she began to breathe easier. Soon the decline ended and an incline began climbing back towards the surface.

The man-made cave went through a series of twists and turns, the passage narrowing so they had to go single file and sometimes even turn sideways to squeeze through. Soon the ceiling dropped and Michaelson told everyone to drop to their bellies and crawl. They went about a hundred feet like this when the sergeant came out into the cool night air, and pulled himself from under a series of bushes that grew over the top of the entrance of the passage.

The others followed, with Gruedo coming out last. The girl released a sigh of relief and their guide stepped forward and placed a hand on each of the younger folk’s shoulders.

“You did well, the tunnel tests the mettle of any…” Michaelson’s soothing voice became a gurgle as an arrow appeared in his throat, the head of the missile stopping just a few centimeters from Gruedo’s face. The older man lurched forward, a gout of blood issued from his wound as the rogue caught him.

Rogen flew into action. He dropped his bags and looked at his unstrung bow. He discarded the idea, drew his hand axe and hammer, and darted to the side for cover under the trees. He ran, bent over, and closed the distance between the attackers and himself.