Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (39 page)

“Hello, Owein.”

He opened his eyes.

He was lying facedown on the deck of a ship.

Owein tried to move, but his muscles refused. His body hurt all over – every joint ached. A few of his ribs were broken, and his left shoulder stung with a sharp, stabbing pain from within. Luckily, his head was pounding so hard it distracted him from the rest of his injuries.

He rolled himself onto his back and tried to sit up. He saw a line of Imperial guardsmen standing around the edge of the deck. He saw the aerial battle still raging near by, though not many ships were left now, and… and –
the assassin!

Owein shot to his feet, and his hand flew to his scabbard.

But there was no hilt there for him to draw.

Tolora stood before him, calmly staring him down. But he didn’t advance. He didn’t move at all. He was perfectly still.

“Don’t worry about him,” said the voice again, ringing like a chime in his ears. “Tolora won’t hurt you. Not yet, anyway.”

Owein nearly fell over when he saw the Empress of Gresadia seated on a sofa behind him. He stared dumbly for a moment.

“Well, aren’t you going to bow?” she said.

He didn’t move at all.

She smiled at him.

“No,” she said. “Of course not. Please, allow me to introduce myself.”

The Empress stood up smoothly from the sofa. It was then he noticed the ornate and colorful suit of armor she was wearing. It was finely built and close fitting, gleaming with brightly polished, mirror-like silver plates. It radiated rich hues of purple and scarlet. Rugged functionality was cleverly disguised behind a dazzling display of ornamental etching. Fine cloth fabrics wove seamlessly among and between the plates and mail. Its contours followed those of her body so closely that Owein thought it was almost indecent to look at her.

“I am Sraia Te Vama, Empress of Gresadia, and Supreme Monarch of the Five Provinces. I am the Divinely Anointed Seat of Imperial Power, Head of the National Government, and, as of recently, Sovereign Pontiff of the Church of Gresadia.”

She walked up to him, so close he could almost smell her. Looking into her glassy blue eyes, Owein was surprised to see that she was incredibly beautiful.

Staggeringly, in fact.

“Well,” she said after a dramatic pause. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

Owein’s jaw wobbled around a bit before he could form the word, “Yeah.” He swallowed dryly. “You should fire the mint. Those coins aren’t doing you justice.”

She smiled brightly. Then she giggled vivaciously. Owein noticed she suddenly appeared to be very young.

“You’re trying to flatter me, Commander.”

“And you’re trying to kill me. Empress.”

“I was. But I think I’ll let you live a while longer.”

“Gee. Thanks.” He eyed Tolora. Something behind him caught the Empress’ attention.

“Oh good,” she said. “Looks like the
zvecum
are finally getting under control.” She turned around and called out to someone beyond the sofa, near a hatch leading into the
Vacthor
.

“Bring us up sixty
entilum
,” she said. “Advance to the Inner City.”

The servant bowed and disappeared inside the ship.

The
Vacthor
slowly rose from its position near the forest canopy to match the altitude of the rest of the fleet. It groaned southward, cutting directly through the fray. The other vessels scrambled to get out of its way.

The flagship’s vast compliment of weaponry blasted to life and scattered the remains of the Avladian fleet. They dispersed or sank, and the rest of the Gresadian armada joined in the procession toward the elvish capital.

Audim burst through the doors to the Sanctum of Shadow. The colossal amphitheater formed a vast, hollow space in the heart of the great tree.

An endless, spiraling bench encircled the sloping wall, providing seating for hundreds of thousands of elves, as well as a walkway from top to bottom. The ceiling vanished into darkness above, and the heartroot, a spindly appendage hanging in the center, dangled like a stalactite all the way down. It terminated just above an altar set at the bottom of the Sanctum, and diminished from the size of a grown tree at the top, to a hair’s width at its end.

The room was windowless and unlit except for the root itself, which glowed a pulsating, luminescent green. The strange light fluctuated and throbbed up and down, producing the effect of constantly moving shadows throughout the chamber. Audim’s necklace throbbed in time with it.

An airy song, like a choir singing far away, reverberated between the walls continuously. It was so faint that it threatened to disappear into imperceptible ambience.

A few elvish clerics were circled around the altar below, and Audim ran down to them, bounding over the benches two at a time.

“Have you found the source of their magic yet?” he called to them.

The elders turned toward him. They were ancient beings, each several hundred years old, yet their eyes possessed a certain kind of durability and strength that forecasted many, many more years ahead.

“We believe we have, young prince,” one of them said. Audim arrived at altar at last.

“Show me.”

The clerics extended the circle, and Audim joined hands with them. They closed their eyes. As one, they raised their heads skyward.

The glowing heartroot above them began to shine brighter. Its light pulsed faster and faster. The rhythm of the distant song quickened to match the mounting light, and built up into a heart-pounding tempo. The green light in the Sanctum intensified, snowballing, until it wasn’t light anymore, but a blinding, scorching heat.

Audim broke from the circle, and it ended. He stepped backward incautiously and his heel caught the bench. He fell backwards onto it. The other elves turned to him slowly, patiently. He was panting.

“No…” he said, shaking his head. “It… it
can’t
be….”

They could offer no words of consolation. They looked to the floor. Defeat was written on their wrinkled faces.

“I do have one question,” said Owein as the Empress walked passed him. She surveyed the battle-damaged remnants of her armada now flying alongside them. “Why do you want me dead?”

She scolded him with a look over her shoulder.

“Really, Owein….”

“What did I do? You signed the warrant. You sent this guy to kill me. Why?” She ignored him. “…
Tell me!
”

The Empress faced the great tree-city. A tiny shadow flitted across the deck. Owein looked up and back in time to see something shaped like a body falling out of sight behind the conning tower, just a few
entilum
astern. A Gresadian galleon was passing over them just above that area.

“Could it be…?” she said, slowly turning to face Owein. Her brow was bunched up with disbelief. “Is it even possible?”

“Is what possible? What are you talking about?”

The Empress took a step toward him.

“You… you don’t believe? Do you?”

“…Believe what?”

Her eyes widened with realization. She looked like she was about to cry for a second, but then she laughed. “My god,” she said. “I can’t believe it!”

“Believe what?”

“You’re a….” She came close to inspect Owein like he was a fascinating specimen. “You’re a …
roccrash
…
!
” She laughed out loud.

“Captain,” Rodroth reported. “Looks like
Gilderam
is leading the remaining Avladian ships on a lateral assault. Starboard side.”

Holth considered the news for only a moment.

“Very well. Alert the gunners. Concentrate all fire on the lead ship.”

“And what about the Avladians, sir?”

Holth gave him an astonished look.

“What about them?”

“Aye aye, sir….”

Mentrat replaced Owein on the forward deckgun as soon as he’d found it vacant. He didn’t spare anytime wondering what had happened to him, since
Gilderam
had never left the thick of battle.

Captain Vrei led the ship on a wide bank to port. A dozen or so Avladian ships trailed behind. They were all that was left. Ranaloc at the fore, and Fulo on the port gun opened fire as they came within range of the
CH Mogcor
and the other bluejack ships.

The
Mogcor
exploded with counter fire immediately. She had a few deckguns like
Gilderam
, but also several cannon batteries and two operable ballistae. The full force of it flew right in the face of the little green blimp as it soared headlong into the armada.

Shazahd was rounding the foredeck when the salvo struck the ship. She dove for cover as bullets peppered the forecastle. Cannon shot tore through the balloon – some of it even came right out the other side. Destruction, rubble and shards of darkwood rained down all around her. Then she saw the ballista bolt.

What must have been a fraction of a second felt like an hour to her as she watched the horrible weapon sail through the air. It spun tightly to aid its accuracy. The head was made of black iron, secured to the end of a tree shank, thick and stubby. She watched it arc right over her head and smash through the bridge window.

The thick glass exploded, and poured an avalanche of razor shards onto the main deck. Shazahd covered her head and felt the jagged, heavy chunks hit her like sharpened rocks.

Then the ship rocketed forward with a sudden burst of speed, and it sent her sprawling to the deck. She struggled against the driving wind, and saw that her arms were streaked with little rivers of blood.

She forgot all about herself when she saw the newer, bigger hole in the bridge window. The dart was gone. It must’ve sunk wholly into the ship.

A moment later and she was gone through a hatchway.

“You will die,” the Empress said simply, “because my master wishes it.”

“Your master…?”

“Feth. The Right Hand of Thuldarus, Bringer of Darkness, the Lord of Underearth and King of the Dead.”

Owein was floored. His mind reeled, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. He didn’t consciously realize that he said the words, “You can’t be serious…” aloud.

“Oh, but I am serious, Owein. Deadly serious, in fact.”

“
Feth?
” he blurted. “The
Dark Sorcerer
, Feth? The one from the Book? That guy? He’s your
master?!
”

Sraia Te Vama nodded.

“Is it really so hard to believe?” she said. “You knew he’d been risen from his earthly Tomb. The Disciple must have told you.”

Owein’s eyes scoured the Empress for any indication of falsehood. He could find none. Her appearance of perfect honesty unsettled him deeply.

“Are you really so hopelessly skeptical that you can’t see the truth when it’s staring you in the face?”

Owein clenched his teeth. There was a battle cry from behind. He wheeled around and saw Jerahd, sailing through the air, having leapt from the conning tower above. His sword was drawn, held high, and he flew at the Empress for a killing blow.

She spun around – and put one foot straight up to deliver a powerful kick to his gut. It stopped him cold, and threw him back. He slid across the smooth deck and bumped into the chaise longue. His sword lay across the deck.

“Ah! The Disciple!” she said jovially. “So nice of you to drop by.”

Owein ran – or rather, hobbled – to help him up.

“The Empress…” Jerahd said, wheezing. “She’s the instrument… of Feth.” She beamed at him proudly. “She’s part of the prophecy… part of his plan to… to destroy the Inner City.” Owein set him on the Empress’ chair.

“Very astute, Servant of Votoc. You’re exactly right. And it’s only a matter of time, now.” She turned around to judge their distance from the Inner City. They were getting dangerously close, only a few short
itthum
away.

“So that’s why you did it,” Owein said as much to himself as anyone else. “That’s why led the whole Empire into an unjust war you knew you couldn’t win. That’s why you created anarchy on the streets – why you threw Gresadia into turmoil – split the country in two….” He trailed off, and his eyes searched the floor. “All that chaos….” His gaze rose to the fleet around him, “…all this death…” and to the Inner City before him, “…and all those lives. All for what? Some
prophecy?
Some mystical,
mlec
fairy tale?!”

The Empress’ face was, for the first time, stern and impassive. All trace of cheer was gone from her. She seemed consumed by something outside herself now, as if her true personhood had vacated her body and left a shell behind. Her eyes were glowing blue.