The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2) (27 page)

For centuries he could only sustain himself on brief exposure to the wild stone. Now, bathed in its glory, he grew in might and power. His crew shared the strength, and he heard their cheers grow more wild and joyous. If only the other half of his crew were present for this moment.

From the height of the tower he could see the mists now encircling the island. Here was the outer limit of the wild stone's powers. Unlike the lesser workings of another, his wild stone magic was potent enough to draw out the natural barriers set by the gods to limit the Tsal. Once his people arrived in force, that mist would push back. For now, any Manifested crossing into it would not live long.

But the work was not done. He had to light the beacon.

Avulash closed his eyes in meditation, mumbling words practiced throughout life that numbed his lips and filled his mouth with the metallic taste of blood. He imagined the slaves huddling together, their red and black faces flat with confusion and fear. He pulled on invisible chains. They stepped forward. He pulled again. The moment of their final purpose had come.

He turned now, eyes opened, arms outstretched and quaking with power. His palms burned like fire as he imagined a hundred chains gathered to them. Below, the slaves had stepped forward just as he imagined.

His crew would witness the extent of his magic now. This was the highest moment of his art. A small smile came to his lips.

Avulash balled both hands into fists and a collective gasp came from the slaves. Then, as if tearing away a bedsheet, Avulash jerked at the air.

The blood of all his slaves became as a red mist over them. They screamed, beady eyes rolling back in their heads, then tumbled lifeless to the courtyard dirt.

With another short flick of his hands, Avulash sent the harvested blood onto the wild stone. The blood slapped onto the hard stone. It was drenched in red but not a single drop of the blood went astray. He recited his words of power, his voice low and commanding, never hesitant.

The blood absorbed into the stone, and the light within the cracks began to shine. Fueled with the blood of his slaves, the beacon flared to life. Avulash's heart-eye traveled across the trackless mists to lost Sathkera.

The world grew dark, as if all had been padded with black cotton. The tunnel through it spun and swirled, echoing with the terrorized howls of the newly killed slaves. A dull light shined at the end of the wispy tunnel, and Avulash's heart-eye sped toward it.

The cries faded to echoes. A world of lightning and darkness met him. In the flashes of light he saw jagged mountain peaks and the massive winged shapes flitting between them in the vague distance. A white fortress built into these mountains loomed out of the dark. Avulash set his heart-eye for the top of the highest tower. Behind it, lightning decorated the black sky with jagged patterns.

Then he was screaming.

The king's mind had touched his, and in that instant he knew glory and pain. His vision became misted and murky. The towering shape of the king hovered over him, formless but for wings curled at his back.

"Avulash." The king's voice rumbled like thunder. "I see you, my faithful servant."

"My king, the way is marked. You see the path?"

The king's laughter was more thunder that shook the dark mountains. "I see a bright string of jewels to be plucked. The path is laid out for me now. You have done well, my servant. We, the children of Urdis, will come. Be ready."

The king closed Avulash's mind-eye as if slamming a door shut. He shouted and staggered. Blind and reeling, then finally collapsing to the stone floor, Avulash's world went dark.

When he awakened again, Sharatar was leaning over him. His amber eyes and yellow hair were as bright spots in the colorless sky above. He touched Avulash's shoulder.

"My captain, you survived touching the king's heart-eye? He has seen our beacon?"

Avulash smiled and nodded, content to lie upon the cold stone. "We must prepare for his arrival. All of the people of this land must be made into slaves. It would be unfitting to present him with anything less."

Sharatar smiled, "Of course, my captain. We will begin with the folk of this island, but there are thousands more among the other islands. The king shall have all the slaves he desires."

"That is good," Avulash said. "We will make the people of these islands a gift to our king for his return to the world."

CHAPTER THIRTY

Syrus stood amid the books and scrolls laid out on the library floor. The papers and parchments were like a massive patchwork quilt of yellow and beige all stained with the strange blue lights of the library levels towering above him. Every moment was an echo in this place, as if the builders had intended the scurrying of a roach to be amplified and heard with utmost clarity. Syrus walked slowly among the volumes and scrolls, some held down with lead weights he had collected from long-ago rotted desks. Other pages were so brittle that they were like thin sheets of ice barely held together in readable format. The scent of dust was heavy in the air, yet even at the bottom level the acrid scent of the slain snake demon still lingered. It was like a stain that would never fade.

"Today's catch." Thorgis's voice echoed off every wall. Somewhere high above, the vibration caused a book to fall, adding its echo to the massive vault of mouldering knowledge. He entered through the crack in the far wall, holding aloft a string of three whitefish no larger than his own hand. Still, Syrus's mouth watered at the sight of it.

"The pools are generous today," Syrus said. He did not need raise his voice. The bottom of the library vault amplified voices so that one could speak to another at the distant end of the library as easily as if they were beside the speaker. "I could eat all three."

"But you'll get one and a half." Thorgis set his fishing gear beside the wall, all makeshift lines and spears he had crafted out of salvage from the library. He then went to the space beneath the stone stairs where a small fire burned. The smoke was siphoned off into a crack in the wall by the natural air current and the fire was far enough from the tinderbox of dried papers that Syrus felt safe from an errant spark. Thorgis strung up the fish, checked on the fire, then joined Syrus amid his papers.

"No big secrets discovered yet?" he asked, carefully stepping around the ancient treasures. A spot of water dripped from the cuff of his pants onto a parchment. Syrus stuffed back his scream, but Thorgis noticed. He froze, as if waiting for permission to continue.

"My biggest advancement is in discovering what I can read. The volumes at the top levels are the oldest and least understandable texts. It was as if the Tsal went deeper as they expanded their library. The bottom levels have newer texts in languages that connect to our own. Some are nearly as plain as common speech, but unfortunately those do not tell interesting stories. Still, I feel as if a picture is being painted here. I just need more time to understand it."

Syrus spread out his arms to indicate the rows of knowledge engulfing him. Thorgis relaxed, but did not go farther into Syrus's maze of books. He instead backed up as he had come. "The fish have been gutted already. I've got water skins as well. You should rest a while."

Thorgis seemed much happier now that he had a simple duty to fulfill. After they found the cracked wall that led to the freshwater stream and pond, Thorgis designated himself as their scavenger and hunter. In truth, he could offer little more. Syrus suspected that despite a royal upbringing, Thorgis was barely literate in his own tongue and could never fathom anything more complex than a lusty battle song. They had still not found a way out, but the flowing air indicated there had to be a passage somewhere. Nevertheless, the goddess Fieyar had provided food and water for Syrus to execute his duty. They could all survive on the meager diet until he had retrieved what he needed.

He just did not know what he needed. King Eldegris had not been specific on what mysteries he was to find. Certainly the existence of this library and the strange snake demon that protected it was information enough. Still, he knew Eldegris had intended him to learn more.

Syrus took his place beneath the stairs with Thorgis, who was working fillets of white fish onto sharpened wood skewers that had been soaked in water. He grunted at Syrus, roughly indicating the water skin. Syrus drank deep, appreciating the cool mineral taste of the water. They sat in silence for a long moment. Syrus stared at the High King's sword now tucked into its sheath. It rested on the floor beside Thorgis as if he were afraid someone might snatch it away. It no longer glowed. But it had when Grimwold's spirit held it.

"What is happening with your father's sword?"

Thorgis completed the first fillet, set it on the stone floor and started on the next.

"It shocked me after Grimwold's spirit left my body. I got the definite impression I was not allowed to hold it. Maybe unworthy is the better word."

Thorgis cursed as the second fillet broke apart as he tried to skewer it. Syrus waited for recognition that did not come.

"The legends surrounding that sword are deep. Some say it fell from the sky and that your father was the first to lift it, and thus became the wielder. Others say it was pulled from the maw of the Great Shark, stuck there after a great hero had lost his battle with the god. None of that is likely. Not even as a distortion of the truth. Your father gave the sword to you for a purpose. We are both trapped here. What you know could help us, but you must share it with me."

The third fillet slid onto the skewer easiest of all three. Thorgis gave a slight smile as he admired his work. Syrus studied him in turn. The questions had lingered in his mind so long, he felt he had already asked them. Now tired, hungry, and cold he had no more reservations about confronting Thorgis.

"Why has the light gone out?"

Thorgis stared at the three glistening fillets. The orange flame of the small campfire danced shadows all around them, a stark contrast to the steady blue light of the library vault beyond. His smile deepened and he began to arrange the skewers of fish on a makeshift metal rack he had fashioned from an old cage he had found in the upper levels.

"I am a coward." Thorgis's voice was small even in a room that amplified sound. "My cowardice drains the strength of the blade."

Syrus wanted to offer encouragement, but then he could not disagree. Thorgis was a coward. Still, something about Thorgis's logic seemed wrong. "Certainly any man who carries a blade to battle would fear for his life, even wielding a sword as legendary as this. If cowardice drained the magic, then I think it would never ignite for anyone."

Thorgis was already shaking his head before Syrus completed his thought. "Cowardice of the heart. That's what does it. Fear in battle is a natural thing, but to cower before one's purpose in life is something far worse. You said you were unworthy of it. No, you brought it to life, even if it was something else inside you that did it. At least you are worthy of it. I am not. I have lived a false life. I am not brave. I am not crafty. I am nothing. I am a fisherman."

He dropped the fillets onto the grill as if to emphasize his point. They both watched the edges curl and brown over the small flames. A drip of water hissed in the fire.

"Once Grimwold was gone, your sword rejected me. I could no more lift that blade than I could hold the campfire in my hands. But you carry it as easily as any blade."

"My father passed it onto me." Thorgis's voice again became a whisper. "I accepted, even though I knew I should never have. He was a stubborn man, and I was his only son. He wanted me to be worthy of his legacy, to carry the blade and the kingship forward. He ignored all the signs that should've warned him otherwise. He ignored me when I was too afraid to accept the burden. But his pride was like iron. He decided I was worthy and I would become what he wanted me to become. The sword obeys its master. I may possess it. But it will not bless me with its magic. It cannot, for I bleed it of the very thing it needs to exist."

Syrus rubbed his hand along the stubble regrowing on his shaved head. He sympathized with Thorgis's humiliation, but it was well deserved. The son of a king must rise above what he feels and learn to inherit his throne from his father. Otherwise, contenders will arise and blood will spill and the nation would collapse into turmoil. How much worse would it be now that Valahur still reeled from Avadur's invasion, never mind the Tsal themselves had somehow returned. He had divined that much from his readings. The men from the storms who wore strange armor and spoke with bizarre accents matched the illustrations of the ancient Tsal depicted in the library.

As they both brooded on their thoughts, Syrus realized with a chill that Thorgis's admission had said something more. He looked up wide-eyed at the prince who was monitoring the grilling fish.

"You spoke about High King Eldegris as if he no longer lived. Why?"

Thorgis closed his eyes before answering. "Because he is dead. All but my sister, Valda, are dead."

"How can you know this?"

"I had a vision of it. I don't know how, or why. Maybe the sword gave it to me? Maybe my father showed me what my cowardice had cost him. I can't say."

"A vision or a dream? And when did you know this?"

"It was right after Urdis's finger swept us away. When I found the camp." Thorgis pointed at the ceiling, indicating where they had first entered Tsaldalr. "I fell into a vision that showed me what had become of them. My father's head was set upon his high table, along with my mother's and sisters' heads. More men like the ones that cornered us in here did this to them."

"But it could have been a dream brought on by your experience in the storm. It might not be true."

"It is," Thorgis said. The finality in his voice stopped Syrus from pushing further. Instead, Thorgis opened his eyes and met Syrus's. "Do you know of the Order of Phyros?"