Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (24 page)

Their attacks and parries were elegant and precise. The direct and powerful strategy of Owein’s fighting style seemed brutishly inadequate for such a bout. His movements were painfully slow compared to the flits and darts of these men’s weapons.

Mesmerized by their show, Owein had again failed to notice a crucial turning of advantage in his favor. A handful of mechanics had come back out of the ship with rifles in hand. Unsure of what to do with Owein out of the fight, one of them fired a shot into the ceiling.

Tolora caught the other man in some sort of hold, and kicked off his chest, sending him hard into the floor. In the break, the assassin looked to Owein, then to the armed mechanics.

“Shoot him!” Owein yelled.

Three more guns fired, spewing a cloud of white smoke around the mechanics outside
Gilderam
. The man with the ponytail was already halfway to the door.

The riflemen took off after him, reloading as they went.

Owein rose to his feet and cautiously approached the robed man on the floor. He was on his hands and knees, and he coughed a couple times before standing upright to face Owein.

“Who the
gweith
are you?” he asked.

The man unraveled his headscarf in one fluid motion, letting wavy, black hair cascade over his face. He wore a scruffy beard, and had some kind of markings on his cheeks.

“My friend,” he said with a heavy accent. He touched his hand to his forehead, then to his heart, and then he bowed to Owein. “My name is Jerahd. And I have been sent here by Votoc to protect you.”

Owein stared down the dark-skinned stranger across the conference table of
Gilderam’s
war room. He sat hunched over with his elbows resting in front of him, his forearms crossed. The foreigner received his gaze motionlessly, sitting straight-backed in his chair opposite Owein. After a while it became apparent that he was entirely impervious to intimidation.

Shazahd, Vrei, Cavada, Gor’m and Fulo, however, were not, and the tension was getting to them. The crowded, short-walled room was dense with quiet anxiety.

“So let me get this straight,” Owein drawled at last. “You were sent…
‘by Votoc’
…? As in the god?”

“As I said.”

“From where?”

“The dunelands of the west.”

“Val,” Shazahd said involuntarily.

Jerahd’s brown eyes found her. They were sharp and intense. He nodded once at her.

“You came all the way from Val?” said Owein. “How did you get here?”

“With some help.”

“Right…” he said patronizingly.

“That’s thousands of
itthum
away,” Vrei noted.

“Why would a god want you to protect me in the first place?” Owein asked.

“You are part of His plan.”

“No kidding. His plan for what?”

“None of us can know that. I know only my part.”

Owein was getting irritated.

“Your part in
what
, exactly?”

The swarthy man opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. The entire war room hung on him in anticipation. Instead of speaking, he smiled coolly at Owein.

“Tell me, Maeriod. Are you a follower of the Book?”

Owein let out a big sigh and reclined backward into his chair. “Terical myth, you mean? No. I can’t say that I am.”

“Are you familiar with the Scriptures? Particularly the account of the End of Days?”

“Sure. Every schoolboy knows that legend. Says how the world’s going to end. Apocalypse, war, devastation, the return of Thuldarus….”

“Yes, that is the one.”

“
All things must run their course and be finished
,” said a voice from the hall. “
So it is with worlds as it is with people and things.
” Levwit Balkenthron, Marquis of Pwij, stood triumphantly in the doorway. “The Prophecy of the End of Days. Book three, chapter three, verse one.” He smiled proudly, eyeing the war room as though he expected a round of applause.

“What the
mlec
are
you
doing here?” said Owein.

“Good to see you again as well, Commander!” he said, shouldering his way between Fulo and Gor’m to get to the table. He plopped himself down on the edge of it.

“I hadn’t yet got around to moving out of my cabin,” he said, “and was thusly quite surprised to find the ship airborne again. Ha ha!” He winked at Cavada. “Hello there, chap. Looking fit as ever.” Cavada was unsure how to respond. Or if he should respond at all. Luckily, Levwit went right on anyway. “Mistress Ranaloc, aren’t you a lovely creature. And Captain! You’re…!” She glared at him. “…Every bit a pirate, aren’t you? How do you do? Ah! And who is this charming character? My, aren’t we exotic!”

“My name is Jerahd.”

“I’m sorry, …Sherggahd?”

“Je
rrr
ahd.” He rolled his uvula. “You do not have this sound in your language.”

“I should say not!” He chuckled jovially. “And where do you hail from? Oh wait! Let me guess…. I’d say, northern Saria. Oloneya? Am I close?”

Before Jerahd could answer, Owein broke in. “I hate to interrupt your little chitchat, Marquis, but we’re kind of in the middle of something right now. How about you return to your quarters and let us carry on?”

“Oh, forgive me!” Levwit popped off the table and bowed his head. “Please, by all means, do go on! I believe you were discussing the final chapter of the Book of Teric. One of my favorites.”

“We were,” said Jerahd, returning his attention to Owein. “You will recall that the End of Days is signaled by several markers?”

“The prophecy.”

“Yes. The prophecy.”

“Let me guess – you think I’m the savior, right?” He laughed. “Nice try. But I’ve already heard that one.”

Jerahd suddenly became very grave.

“You have?” his voice was low and severe. His muted words silenced the entire room. Owein eyed him suspiciously. The atmosphere had changed, and now he felt as though
he
were the one on trial.

“Wait!” blurted Shazahd, shattering the quietude. “We have a copy in the library!”

“Don’t bother, Shazahd,” said Owein.

But Cavada had already started for the door. “I’ll get it,” he said, heading for the ship’s library across the hall.  

“What did you just say?” Jerahd asked Owein.

Shazahd answered, “He’s going to get the Book of –”

“No, not that. He said a word. It was not Gresadian.”

“Oh,” said Shazahd. Then after a beat, “You mean ‘Shazahd?’”

“
Shazahd
…?” Jerahd whispered it. Something about his expression seemed out of place. He was more than surprised – he was alarmed. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”

Shazahd laughed awkwardly. “Yes. It should be familiar to you; it’s Valan.”

“Why would he say this word?”

“…It’s my name.”

Cavada burst back into the war room with a heavy, leather-bound tome in his arms. It landed with a
thud
on the table. Shazahd unclasped its lock, but her eyes lingered on Jerahd for a moment. She peeled it open, carefully flipping through the thick, waxy vellum pages looking for the final chapter.

“Here it is,” she said, and read aloud. “…
All things must run their course and be finished
…
the coming of the End of Days shall be heralded by several markers
….” She looked up at Jerahd again for a second, and then returned to the text. “The first marker.
The first marker shall be the failing of religious faith worldwide. The holiest and most devout will violate the strictures of their creeds, abandon their pursuits of divinity, and be stained by the evil of corruption. This shall help only to further the suffering of the world.
”

“Well,
that’s
hardly in dispute,” said Levwit wryly.

“
Second, there shall be war between the mightiest brothers of Vuora. And it will be a war of purest hatred, free from logic or sense, and illegitimate in the fullest. The start of this war shall be incited by the death of an innocent, and the armies that meet will be the largest and most terrible forces ever assembled.
”

“Brothers?” thought Vrei aloud. “What brothers?”

“Not literal brothers,” said Jerahd, “but metaphoric ones. It refers to the war between Gresadia and Divar.”

“Purest hatred?” said Fulo. “Illegitimate? Sounds right to me.”

“It says the war will be incited by the death of an innocent,” observed Cavada. “…So who died?”

“Maybe that’s another metaphor?” suggested Owein sarcastically.

“Yeah,” said Fulo. “This war started over a land dispute. Title and legal rights. Nobody’s death.”

“No,” said Shazahd. “Someone did die.”

All eyes fell on her. Her visage was downcast, and her brow strained.

“Councilor Thalius,” she said. “Remember?” Realization spread through the war room like a slow burning fire.

“He was the only Imperial Councilor who advocated against the war,” said Levwit. “Without unanimous agreement, a legal war could never have been declared.”

“And he was assassinated on this ship…” Cavada noted ominously.

“Thus paving the way for the Empire to go to war,” continued Levwit. “The brothers. The innocent. The prophecy.” He let out a childish giggle. “Oh, I just
love
this stuff, don’t you?”

Jerahd’s full attention was fixed upon Owein across the table, and his expression was chiseled stone. Owein found himself at a lack for words, unsettled by the foreigner’s gleaming eyes.

Shazahd read on.

“
A vast, black army shall march to the Navel of the World and pray to Thuldarus to show them the way to the Tomb of Feth, hidden deep in the desert. The answer shall be supplied by the sands of the very desert itself.
What’s that about?”

Jerahd drew in a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. This simple gesture was enough to draw the focus of the war room onto himself.

“An army from Geldr’thal has already swept through the desert of Val. Many thousands of my countrymen died in the – the….” He choked on his words. Owein saw something appear on his face – the trace of a deep and genuine pain – and despite his conscious feelings of distrust toward this man, he felt a little empathy creep into his heart. He felt involuntarily empathetic. After an uncomfortable moment, Jerahd went on.

“They came to the Navel of the World, what we call the Rwahji Crater. They prayed there, and Thuldarus answered them.”

“Wait,” said Owein. “Didn’t it say something about the ‘desert sands’ supplying the answer?”

“Yes,” said Jerahd. “And the desert did reply. The earth itself shot into the sky. It pointed them in the direction of the Tomb of Feth. Just as the Book foretold.”

“The earth
shot into the sky
…
?
” Owein echoed cynically.

“It did. I was there. I saw it with my own eyes.”

Owein scoffed, unconvinced.

“Wait,” said Shazahd. “There’s more…
A potential Savior shall be found, a most holy child, born from the heart of Vuora.
”
She glanced up at Owein before reading, “
This One shall be given a chance to interrupt the progression of the prophecy and, by so doing, forestall the coming of the End of Days. A prophet will identify him and then
…
and then
… oh, by the gods….”

“What? What is it?!” Owein demanded. He noticed, to his surprise, that he was on the literal edge of his seat.

Shazahd swallowed.

“…
A prophet will identify him and then receive a vision of the future. That vision will tell him if the Savior will be successful in preventing the fulfillment of the prophecy, and thus delaying the End, or
…
if he is destined to fail
.”

Owein fell back into his chair. Shazahd gaped at him, stunned.

“What?” asked Jerahd. “Has something happened?”

“You can’t really…” Owein said to Shazahd, Gor’m, Fulo, Cavada and Levwit. They were all staring at him, pale with astonishment. 

“That kooky priest in Erand…” Fulo mumbled.

“
Threithumé
,” mumbled Gor’m, massaging everyone’s eardrums.

“What is it?” asked Jerahd again, urgently.

“When we were in Erand, just a few days ago,” Shazahd began, never taking her eyes off Owein, “a Terical priest proclaimed that Owein was the Savior…. We all assumed he was crazy… at the time.”

“At the time?” Owein snapped. “At the
time?!
What do you mean,
at the time?
He’s
still
crazy!”

“The vision!” Jerahd pressed. “What about the vision!”

“Huh?” Shazahd was entranced.

“The prophecy states that the one who identifies the Savior will receive a vision of the future that will show him whether or not the Savior will be successful in preventing the End of Days! What did he see?! Did he tell you?”

Jerahd scanned the faces of everyone in the war room, but they were uniformly gloomy.

“You
must
tell me!” said Jerahd. “
What did he say?!
”

“Well, he…” Owein said sullenly. “…He gouged out his own eyes and fell backwards off a bridge.”

Owein was deathly grave. The eager hope behind the Jerahd’s expression melted into an awful kind of disenchantment. He sunk back into his chair in slow motion, speechless.

“Well…” said Levwit after a beat. “That could mean anything, really.” Vrei shot him a look. “What?” he said with a shrug.

Shazahd took a deep breath, gathered her strength, and went on. “It says that the prayers of the black army will be answered, and they’ll march to the Tomb to free the Dark Sorcerer. Feth.”

They all looked to Jerahd, who nodded absently in response.

“They did,” he said. “And they have.”

“You mean to say,” said Vrei, “that the ancient servant of the Dark Lord, the one who started the Second War thousands of years ago, has been…
resurrected?
”