144: Wrath (3 page)

As he climbed atop his horse, he checked his crossbow and patted the steed on the neck.

"The sun is fading," Ranar said.

"Could be a
Valai'ree
coming," Polas said. "Food will be rationed, farmers will adjust their crops, and people will be ready. This is not the first Age to end, and it won't be the last."

"Still, a
Valai'ree
begins just as we wage our final battle against Exandercrast? I think it's a bad sign."

"I’ve never cared much for omens, Ranar," Polas replied.

Narci chuckled lightly and scratched behind Kittah’s ear.

The trio watched as undead filed into the valley through a narrow pass at the northern end. The throng was endless. The air boiled above them with the acrid stench of decomposing flesh and rotten meat. It was impossible to tell what each being had been in life; they were so far decayed that many looked like masses of grey-green leather drawn tightly over humanoid bones.

"So begins the end," Polas said. "Our last battle after these long years. The end of an Age, and the end of the war."

Narci nodded.

"Maybe you should give another speech," said Ranar. "Something to steel the men’s will."

Narci laughed. "A more rousing speech than he has already given? No, let us delay our victory no longer."

A young boy no older than fifteen pushed through the gathered masses behind Polas and cleared his throat. His hair was unkempt and greasy, and his armor was little more than padded peasants’ garb. On his shoulder, he wore the badge of the healers’ unit.

"Master Kas Dorian, sir," the boy stammered, trying to raise the courage to speak directly to the man who had been a hero to so many. "I thought you might need this."

From his tunic, he pulled a small phial of shimmering blue liquid and held it out to Polas. The general took the phial and mounted his horse.

"Boy, don’t you know magic doesn’t --" Ranar started, but Polas cut him off with a gesture.

"Thank you, young sir. What is your name?" Polas asked.

"Mahk, of Tonrea."

"My farm is not too far a travel from Tonrea," Polas said. "I’m sure the people there will be happy to have you as their hospitaler once all of this is over, Mahk."

Mahk flushed and bowed his head before turning back to the crowd.

"You’re their hero, you know," Ranar said. "All of them. They’re all here for you."

Polas shook his head. "No. They are here for Hope and to put an end to this Exandercrast's rule."

CHAPTER THREE

Matthew watched as the legendary general ran his finger back and forth across the page. He noticed the man’s strength even in his broken state. He watched the man's eyes straining to soak in every word and could see the tempest building within him as his mind fought to make sense of what he read.

When Polas finished the section, he slammed the book shut and threw it across the barn. The horses whinnied and strained against their stall doors.

Matthew crept over to them, shushing as he went. His reserved movement was not only for the horses, but also to afford Polas a brief peace as the world caught up with him. He was somewhat surprised to see the general’s shoulders shaking as he held his head in his hands, nearly tearing the hair from his scalp. In all his years of dreaming of Polas’s return, he had never really thought of the hero as a being with a life, with a family that would be left behind. He had studied the man’s complete history - at least that which was recorded - so he knew of his wife and two children and of the close bonds of the Sigil, but it had never truly struck him that Polas might return to the world broken.

Legends always painted their heroes as great men sweeping in on horseback and trampling nations and dynasties to restore that which was lost. Matthew chided himself for not realizing sooner that Polas would be very much a man in need of answers before he could be a leader of men.

"How much? How much did I miss? A year? More?"

Matthew sighed and looked down at the dusty ground. "No, my friend, you have been dead…" Matthew caught his tongue and looked at Polas, but there was no reaction. "You have been missing for a millennium."

Polas stood and limped out of the barn.

Matthew followed quietly behind him.

The bright sky met him with a blinding wave and caused Polas to stumble as his eyes adjusted. His hands found the edge of an old well ringed with stone, and he sat. A small bucket attached to a long rope lay on the ground nearby. The well was barely wide enough for the bucket to fit smoothly, and its edge was mere inches above the grass, but the stones were cool and helped to keep Polas’s mind from falling into the abyss.

Polas clenched his teeth in an effort to control the swirl of emotions welling inside him. His mind spun and left him nauseous. Were it not for the bandages he would likely have vomited all over the ground.

"Impossible," Polas said. However, he knew that it was not the least bit impossible. Incredible and improbable most certainly, but he had dared to challenge a god. Very little fell into the realm of impossibility when one stood against Exandercrast.

The Cairtol seated himself on the ground in front of Polas and waited. The two sat in stillness for an hour while Polas tried to wrap his mind around what he had been told. The air was warm as it swirled about the tiny glade. The Cairtol’s house and barn filled the clearing between the trees, and there was just enough room for Matthew to be close by without invading the general’s private thoughts. At the back of the house, a small vegetable garden delighted in the sunlight, growing kavrin beans and waterstalk plants. The house had only two rooms with one open window each. The roof was thatched, and the doors were made of dark hymarion wood.

Birds came and warbled greetings and went on their way. A few squirrels played about the ground and chased each other up and down the tall trees, completely ignoring Matthew and Polas in their game. Insects buzzed around a cluster of white flowers behind the barn, and the horses and mule continued their own conversation despite the silence between the two men.

"One thousand years?" asked Polas. "How is that possible?"

"In all truth, I had hoped you might be able to answer that question."

Polas gave a defeated shrug in response. All he could remember was preparing for war, the hellish landscape of Waysmale, the struggle toward Firevers, and somewhere within him, an unending pain.

"My family? What happened to my family? Please, at least know that," Polas pleaded.

Matthew shook his head. "No one knows what happened to your wife and daughter after your army was defeated. But, to be fair, history rarely checks up on those left behind. It is possible they lived out their lives in relative peace," he added with an unconvincing smile. "But I have found no record of them after the war."

An uneasy quiet floated between them. Polas let his head fall into his hand and stared at his feet.

"And what of my boy?"

"Your son…" Matthew looked down toward the ground, as though the grass blades were suddenly very interesting.

Polas looked up. "Yes. What about my son?"

Matthew rose to his feet and walked toward his house. "A drink. I think I’ll have another cup of tea."

Polas stood. "What do you know, Matthew? What of Calec?"

Matthew turned but refused to meet Polas’s gaze. "The same legends that speak of you as the Iron Butcher hold that the Son of the Iron Butcher was given eternal youth in exchange for eternal service as the Guardian of Exandercrast."

Polas fell back against the well and slid slowly to the ground. He clasped his hands tightly in front of him and shook his head as though his denial might repeal any truth the statement held.

"The same legends? Then they are surely untrue," Polas said. "Lies spread to rob men of their faith."

"I’m sorry, Master Kas Dorian," Matthew whispered. "I’m afraid that I myself have confirmed the veracity of this legend in my own travels. Your son was taken to the Sea of Dreams in the Reveriet Mountains, a place outside of time and age. I too have been there, and though I did not see him myself, one whom I trust beyond my own life witnessed his presence there."

"My boy..." Polas stared at a passing cloud, watching it billow then break apart into velvety ribbons. "But then he is alive, at least."

"Alive, but lost to the darkness."

Polas stood. "I’ll find him then. I’ll find him and bring him out."

Matthew‘s mouth moved, but no words came. After a moment, he simply nodded and forced a thin smile.

 "Exandercrast." Polas pulled back his bandages and spat upon the ground. "You’ve taken everything from me, but you will not have my son." Hatred and sorrow boiled within him, and his heart was bent toward vengeance. He stumbled back into the barn and returned moments later leading a horse by the reins. He patted the creature on the neck and climbed onto its back.

"Where are you going to, General Kas Dorian?" Matthew asked.

"How far to Flarcant?" Polas asked.

Matthew cast a hand over his eyes as he looked up into the autumn sky. A string of wispy, low clouds drifted high above, moved by an unseen wind.

"Several days ride," Matthew said, looking back at Polas. "You must follow the desert east along the Urones until you reach the pass at the northern edge of the Ajares Mountains."

"Just south of the Rhamewash Forest?"

"Yes."

"I can find my way from there."

Polas kicked and steered the horse past the well and away from Matthew’s home. He kicked again, urging the horse forward faster, hoping to leave his nightmare behind with the old Cairtol.

CHAPTER FOUR

For two days, he rode hard against the land. He pushed the horse to its limits, only stopping when it needed water or rest. The arid expanse of Olagon rushed past him, and a small voice within called for him to give in to its embrace. It begged him to return to the sand, to fade away, and to be forgotten. He knew, somehow, that the hereafter would be his only chance at peace, for he had lost himself once to war, and he knew that this time could only hold for him the same destiny. But he could not surrender yet, not until he knew the truth. Especially not if his son was truly still alive.

So he rode as though the answers lay beyond the ever-elusive horizon.

The desert mocked him as he traveled the first day. At the end of the second day, he reached Oladair's Pass and passed through to southern edge of the Rhamewash Forest. A strong desire gripped him that night, for he knew he was close to Narci’s homeland. His old friend had always been his most stalwart and loyal rock. Perhaps if he could find the Eryntaph general, he would be able to make sense of this world and of this time. He shook his head, pulled at the reigns, and stopped the horse. Surely the old Cairtol was sewing mistrust and lies. He would be home soon enough, and then he would know.

Polas camped a short distance from the forest, near a wagon road that ran north to south. A jagged string of broken moons dotted the western skyline, painting the landscape in blues and soft whites. Those cursed moons and the vile suns kept reminding him that this new world was his reality. In the time he knew, the sky had only one white sun and two purple moons.

He laid back and closed his eyes, remembering the nights he had sat alone with Finadel under those very moons. He could almost smell the fields of Madurian barley under the autumn sun. He itched to feel the gentle caress of her hand in his. He desperately wished to open his eyes and find her beside him staring up at those familiar violet moons. Of all the things missing from this land, those moons were the saddest reminder of his family’s absence. He and Finadel had named their daughter, Leyryl, after the smaller moon. They had even built their home so that they could watch the rising moons cool the fields each night under their lavender glow.

He knew the sky had changed before, and he knew it would change again. Each Age saw the final setting of its daily sentinel and the departure of its nightly hosts and faded into a long night when not even starlight reached Traesparin. The span between ages was difficult, but people knew how to survive, and the promise of a new dawn kept them from surrendering to the
Valai'ree
. New ages would come, and new dawns with new suns. He hated this sky, though. It was too dark in the day and too bright at night. The three suns never rose fully into the heavens, but always remained lazily in the south while the north lay in unending twilight. The broken moons were like burning shadows and reflected an eerie light that kept eyelids from closing completely. He counted only three whole moons, but at least four or five broken pieces trailed from each like tears.

Sleep came to him bearing a grudge, and only his body was able to rest. His mind was pummeled by hazy images of lost friends and forgotten wars.

~ 1000 years ago ~

The battle surged and swelled around him. Polas gripped his shimmering, white blade in both hands. The weapon was more than some ordinary sword. It was the Blade of Leindul, the Sword of the Nalunas, and it sang through the thick flesh and bone of undead soldiers like a hand parting a gentle stream of water. Polas steadied his horse and took a moment to survey the battlefield around him.

The valley rang with the ring of steel on steel, the shouts of men, and the crash of wood on armored hide. The generals had led their armies down into the valley in a sweeping move to push back the advance of the undead. The steep sides to the east and west made it difficult for their enemies to bring in additional troops to flank, and the north end was too narrow to march a significant force through swiftly for a head-on attack.

The soldiers that battled for Light and Hope were outnumbered, but not overwhelmed. They set aside their differences and fought together to throw off the cloud of fear that Exandercrast spewed out over the world.

But the undead were relentless.

Cairtols used their small size to scamper across the battlefield setting small fires in an effort to keep the creatures from rising again. As the battle labored on, it became a battle of wills. Fallen allies would be raised moments later to assault their former friends, and each would continue to fight as long as its head was still connected to its body.

Narci no longer rode Kittah, but instead fought beside the great Erus tiger. Both tore and clawed at their enemies, sweeping through their ranks as a plague unleashed.

A team of Yarsacs charged through the valley floor, trampled enemies with their powerful hooves, and sliced through the undead ranks with their well-honed blades.

Ranar fought to stay atop his steed, firing bolt after bolt. Each volley answered with a sickening squelch as it found its target.

The giant Taylith soldiers, who towered three times as tall as any Peltin man, hurtled stones at the dark legions with greater accuracy than could be asked of a Dairbun siege engine.

A dark shadow briefly blocked Polas’s vision as an Ibor warrior swooped down in front of him. The creature was taller than even Narci and had skin like stone. Its face was gnarled and craggy, and its mouth was rimmed with sharp, angular teeth. Two thin and bony wings protruded from its shoulders. Twin horns curled back from the beast’s forehead, and its eyes were cold black.

The Ibor swiped a clawed hand and tore out the throat of the general’s horse. Polas rolled as his mount fell. The Ibor was on him as soon as he had his footing, but Polas was ready. There was no substance in the world that could stop the Blade of Leindul when wielded by General Kas Dorian, not even the rocky hide of an Ibor. A quick cross-pattern removed the creature’s head and arms, and its thick frame fell to the ground with a whumpf and a scattering of rocks.

Polas looked up as the sky darkened. Ibor descended from the mountains around them, their wide wings allowing them to glide on the hot air currents and drop down to ravage their prey.

Panic tore through the army as people dived for cover or hid beneath wooden shields. Those that dropped to the ground were buried by the unremitting undead, and those who put their faith in wooden shields found them to be no match for the strength of the Ibors’ claws.

A group of Faldred mages dropped their scrolls and headed for the cover of a nearby cave so that they could regroup.

Polas whistled to Ranar.

The Faldred general pulled a spindle-shafted bolt with a gleaming red tip from his pack and shot it straight up into the air. The bolt screamed as it climbed into the heavens. When it seemed the bolt would be lost to the clouds, it exploded in a shower of sparks and light.

A second shadow fell across the battlefield. The Melaci Skywatch; Allies of Hope in this great war. Their appearance was answered with shouts and cheers from their friends on the ground.

The Melaci resembled Peltin men, save for one great difference. Their backs bore proud and powerful seraph wings that gave them the enviable gift of flight. Each wore light chain armor and carried a glimmering Sky Shield strapped to their boots. With the sun at their back, they unleashed volley after volley of drill-tipped arrows.

The barrage of projectiles burrowed through undead flesh and tore through tough Ibor wings. Not one arrow strayed off course or found an allied target. The elite archers of the Melaci Skywatch did not miss.

Polas used the distraction to cleave through three Ibor warriors, dropping them all in halves on the rocky soil. He turned in time to see a large spear impale Ranar and pin him to the ground. The Faldred was still alive, but the spear’s deliverer was closing on him. Polas sprinted forward, crying out to grip the beast’s attention. The Ibor raised a clawed hand to end Ranar’s life, but his arm was caught and snapped backwards with at gut-wrenching crunch. The Ibor fell to the ground with Narci standing over him.

The beast rose onto its elbows, ready to tear into the Eryntaph general, but Polas had reached his friends, and his blade made short work of the Ibor.

Narci nodded to Polas and returned to the fury of the battle.

Polas put one foot on Ranar’s breastplate and heaved the massive spear out of the Faldred’s chest. Ranar coughed up blood, and the wound gurgled in response.

"Leave me, Polas. I’m faded," said Ranar.

"Nonsense," Polas said, pulling the phial of blue liquid from his belt. He poured the magic ointment onto the wound and watched as the muscle and flesh knit itself back together. "Now, quit lying around and help us out." He nodded one last time and turned back to the carnage surrounding him.

He truly believed that they could win the battle. All the years of fighting, all the lives spent, but they could win this battle and it would finally be over.

Then the ground shuddered.

For a moment, Polas feared the entire world would crumble from the quake. The battle stopped as every head turned toward the north, the direction of Firevers. Exandercrast was coming to join the battle at last. The Peltin general rushed forward over shaking rock and stone.

At the end of the battlefield where the valley closed to a narrow pass, the earth broke. Exandercrast burst forth, and Polas’s heart lurched. It was one thing to wish the God of Fear destroyed; it was something much more formidable to face him in person. The horrific deity stood over seventy feet high, and his black wings blocked out the sky. His dark scales absorbed the sunlight and destroyed it. His serpentine neck ended in a long and horned head, its vicious maw rimmed in jagged teeth. A long, narrow tail snaked behind him and knocked boulders aside like mere pebbles. His clawed hands cleaved through the mountainsides as though they were soft soil and he the till. He was a Nalunis, a draconic immortal, and as the second and only living son of the Nalu, the First, he was the unrivaled ruler of mortals.

Unrivaled in power, but not unopposed.

Polas gritted his teeth. As the battlefield turned from bloody carnage to trampling, fleeing beings, – both allied and enemy – Polas charged. To his side, he saw Narci leaping from rock to ground to Ibor carcass, pressing forward, teeth bared. Ranar was nowhere to be seen, but that could not be helped. They were almost in range.

Exandercrast raised his arms into the darkening sky. A shadowy ball of untold energy boiled between his hands. It danced between his palms. Black bolts like lightning licked at his clawed fingertips as the sphere expanded with the dark lord’s power.

Polas heard Narci roar above the chaos and watched the Eryntaph double his speed, now leaping across the fleeing masses as though they were stepping-stones.

They could not fail, not after fighting for so long. Polas pushed ahead, but he was just a man and the dark god was still half the valley away.

Exandercrast slammed the giant orb into the ground beneath him.

A wave of coruscating black energy swept out in all directions burning the tissue from any being it touched. The wave incinerated flesh and left nothing in its wake but bone, blade, and empty armor. When it reached Polas, his eyes widened, and he clutched his daughter’s braid.

Darkness took him.