144: Wrath (4 page)

A rude awakening came in the late morning as Polas found himself being pushed over while greedy hands checked him for valuables.

He rolled and kicked, striking one of the pilferers in the knee and knocking him to the ground. The second cried out in shock and tripped backwards over a fallen log.

Polas rose and readied himself for an attack that never came.

The two beings were young Peltin men about halfway through their teens. Their wagon stood several paces away on the road where a young woman tended to their horses. Both boys were scrawny and dressed in dirty peasant’s clothes.

"Beggin’ your pardon sir," said the youth with the bruised knee. His hair was black and his face pocked. "We didn’t mean no harm. We thought you was dead."

"What with the bandages and lying around this late in the day and all," added the second as he stood and dusted off his trousers. "We’ll just be on our way then."

The two young men backed warily toward their wagon. The girl had already climbed into the driver’s seat and was ready to make a quick getaway. Her bright eyes flitted back and forth between her two companions and the open road in front of her.

"Wait," Polas said.

The two men froze.

"When… what day is it? And to what city do you travel?" Polas asked.

The dark-haired boy raised an eyebrow to his companion who shrugged in reply.

"It’s the fourth
vesahn
day. We’re traveling to Odes’Kan, trying to make it by the
maris
day," he said.

Polas took a few steps forward matched by a few steps backward from each of the young men. "
Vesahn
day?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what year and age?"

The second young man looked puzzled.

"Is this Maduria and the Rhamewash Forest?" Polas continued.

The redheaded boy, again, was the one to answer him. "Yes, uh sir, this is Maduria and that indeed is the Rhamewash Forest. As to the year and age, it is the twenty-seventh year of the Orange Age. Are you well, sir?"

Polas walked over to his horse and leaned his head on its snout. "Yes. I am well. Thank you for humoring a deranged old man."

The duo left him then, rejoined their companion at the wagon, and returned to their journey at a quickened pace. The wagon wheels creaked along the worn ground, and the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves faded as they disappeared down the rolling road.

Polas stood alone with his horse, listening to the sounds of the dark woods and staring off into the distance. Birds chirped and wind stirred branches. Somewhere deep within the forest, an elk called and clacked its antlers against a tree trunk, the sound bounding from tree to road to field beyond. Far away, he saw azure mountains breaking the horizon.

He was right about Narci’s homeland then, and the call to seek his old friend for guidance hit him even harder. He shook the thought away and tried to focus on what he knew. The time he had known was the Age of the Alabaster Sky, and he had never known of an Orange Age or a
vesahn
day. But an age could change in a year as easily as a millennium. He was not yet convinced. Flarcant would show him. His farm and his family; they would know of them there. If he had his bearings right, the small city was merely four days’ ride away if the horse kept its lick. He could make it that far. He had made it through much worse in the past.

Weakly, he climbed back on top of his horse and ignored the growling of his stomach. His hunger gnawed at his insides, pulling his chest toward his knees. Matthew had been right about the ointment, however. Even though it had begun to dry out, he still did not find himself thirsty. He had to remind himself to stop occasionally to allow the horse to drink, but otherwise kept a steady pace as he pursued what was left of his past.

CHAPTER FIVE

Exandercrast once again found himself at war with his old foe, ennui. The feeling of complete empowerment overtook him once every hundred years or so, and he found it to be altogether boring. Not that he wished to relinquish his power; it was his by birthright and by conquest, after all. But a piece of his bleak soul wished there was something capable of challenging his might, of testing his limits, of giving him the slightest thrill. The current, monotonous age had even made his hold on the prison in the desert of Olagon seem stale and tedious. More than once, he considered releasing his magical seal on the place so that those within would finally be allowed to perish. It had been decades since he last set foot in the arcane prison, and he had long ago tired of tormenting the few pitiful beings left within.

It was for this reason he spent most of his years in the form of a Peltin man. The bipedal shape was inherently weak, especially when compared to his draconic godhood, but it afforded him extra sensations lost on those Naluni too proud or too impotent to alter their shape. He savored the way adrenaline rushed through his veins as he murdered a family of Yarsac nomads. He relished in the damp heat of Dorokti blood as it ran across his fingers. And he reveled in the rush he felt from forcing a Coranthen woman to his bed. Though sometimes he enjoyed the challenge of coaxing them there even more.

 Some of the Naluni that served him liked nothing more than to attack a mortal village and raze it to the ground. Exandercrast himself had destroyed his fair share of cities in this manner, but he found the burst of terror it produced from his victims to be too short to truly sate his desires. That was why he preferred to play games with these pitiful mortals. Only recently had he devised a way to prolong the fear of destruction and utter loss in the soul of a mortal, and the soul itself was the key. For while the frail bodies they inhabited were born for destruction, the spirits within them were far more precious and enduring. He had extended life before; that was a simple thing and proved to be dull after only a few centuries. He had even frozen souls before, but in doing so had stripped them of their awareness. This new trick was something far grander.

He strolled across the square, his sleek black hair trailing over his shoulders. He wore a dressing suit of pure white with a black poet’s shirt beneath. His Peltin form was a picture of the kind’s ideal: square jaw, clean, straight teeth, refined nose, and misty grey eyes. The campus around him lay in stark contrast to his perfection. An old barracks with a collapsed roof hunched at the far end of the square. A stable and two class buildings lay in ruin; scorch marks marring their foundations. Only the university center itself still stood unmarked by the destruction that had leveled buildings, walls, and towering gate around it. Wraiths, displaced souls that hardly resembled the bodies that once held them, flitted between shadows, hoping to escape the God of Fear’s notice.

A wicked sneer cut across Exandercrast’s face.

Five years ago, he had sent his Naluni to destroy Five Islands University, and he, in turn, had used a portion of his own power to keep the souls of those killed that day from moving on. These formless shades fed him constantly with the rawest fear imaginable. However, sometimes he desired something even sweeter.

"Come out, lost ones, and I will free one of you from this fugue," Exandercrast announced to the still air.

There was a gentle stirring and a sad glimmer of anticipation washed over him. He licked his lips. While eternal despair was enough to satisfy him, he much preferred the immense pain a soul felt when hope was ripped away and pure horror became the last beat of existence in a weary spirit.

A wispy form emerged from behind a broken wall. Exandercrast spread his arms out wide and beckoned to the wraith. It was hard to tell, but it looked as though it had been a young Peltin girl, no more than twenty years aged, in its death.

"Come," he said to her. "Take my hand. I will free you from this place, and you may finally pass on into the hereafter."

The ethereal figure floated toward him, a billowy arm outstretched. Exandercrast felt a wave of panic swell around him from those left watching. Whether it was exuded for fear of the girl’s safety or that they might be left behind to their damnation, he was not sure. As the spirit’s hand touched his, he felt a chill run up his arm, and as he smiled, the wraith’s emotions soared even higher.

Exandercrast lashed out with whip-like strands of dark energy. The arcing tendrils seized the spirit and tore it to shreds.

The watching souls fled as far as they were able, and Exandercrast’s lungs swelled as he breathed in the raw dread of lost dreams. He shifted back to his true form, roared, and launched himself into the night sky. The splinters of the shattered soul wailed in agony behind him; a cry that would continue until the end of time.

CHAPTER SIX

Matthew the Blue sat, waiting. He hoped his faith was not in vain and Polas would show up soon. It had been five full days since the legendary warrior left the Cairtol’s home without food or water. He was not worried about Polas’s ability to fend for himself in the wilds of Maduria, but he did worry about the man’s spirit.

Matthew had immediately fretted and considered riding after the ancient general, but wisdom had won out. He would never have been able to catch up with the general’s horse while riding his own trusty mule. So instead, he had prepared. He packed up rolls of dried meats, fruits, and nuts. He filled several skins with pure water from his well, and he readied his traveling gear: a small pack, oil, traveler’s mune, a bedroll, pen and ink, a coil of rope, a pouch of coins, and a few blank books.

Now he waited as he had for the past two days. He had returned home briefly when he realized that he had forgotten to bring any of the pora balm with him. Polas would be in desperate need of a second batch of the burn salve when he arrived.

Matthew had been to Flarcant before, some years ago when he first explored Maduria. His more recent travels had taken him across seas to the distant lands of the Bo’Uhr in Odoror and the untamed wilds of Hymar, but he always felt like Maduria was his true home. His books on the histories of Maduria and the Graeran Plains had included entries about Flarcant. They were merely footnotes for he had not been able to dig up much information about the town, but still felt that it was important to include its existence in his record books. From what he knew, Flarcant may have been destined to become the jewel of the plains for its fertile soil, rich farmland, and its location along the trade route that ran from Nittengret to Odes’Kan.

Matthew shook his head and sighed.

He sat alone in an empty field of prairie-fire grass. The only marker for kallows was a stone totem jutting into the pastoral scene and offending the eye with its garish ornamentation. The pillar was twenty feet high and bore the shrieking faces of ghastly apparitions straining to free themselves from its core. The carvings were so masterfully done that they had given rise to a horrific legend. Many believed that this was no mere totem, but that the souls of the people of Flarcant had been trapped within when the town was destroyed ages ago. From what Matthew knew of history and of the vile and vengeful nature of Exandercrast, his heart sank to think that this legend was likely all too true.

Several times in his younger days, he had returned to this spot with conscripted mages and sorcerers hoping to release the trapped spirits into eternity. Many had tried. All had failed.

The sound of hooves riding across hard ground caught his attention. He stood and batted a stingnat away from his ear before pulling out a bar of mune and taking a bite.

Polas slowed his horse as he approached the marker, and Matthew was forced to wave his hands over his head to be seen amid the tall grass.

"Well, let’s have those bandages off and get you something to eat," Matthew said. "You must be famished."

Polas let go of the reins and slid from the horse’s back. Matthew did his best to help steady the man, but ended up doing little more than bracing Polas’s knee.

Polas sat on his haunches for a moment before collapsing onto his back. His shirt was soaked with sweat and grime. His eyes were red with dark circles. Even the horse looked exhausted as Matthew strapped a feedbag to its snout.

Matthew helped undo the bindings on Kas Dorian’s face. "Here, have some of this, and we’ll talk."

He handed Polas a waterskin and a pouch full of dried fruit. Polas ate and drank greedily, finishing both containers before any more words were exchanged.

Finally, Polas stood and gazed upon the ghoulish totem. Matthew handed a few strips of dried meat up to him, which he took, giving the Cairtol only a curt nod in return.

Polas raised one hand to his eyes and looked out over the field of waving grass. Nothing made any sense. He should have passed his farm hours ago and yet the city was still nowhere in sight. "How much farther is Flarcant? I thought I had found my bearings, but I must be more lost than I realized."

"It is not you who are lost, my friend," Matthew the Blue said. "Rather it is Flarcant. Destroyed not long after you left by the God of Fear and his minions. This is all that remains of those people, preserved here in warning against any town that might sire one such as you."

Polas stepped forward to examine the totem. He was shocked to find that he recognized a few of the faces frozen in the stony effigy. His eyes widened, and he began to search frantically for his wife and daughter with the trapped souls. Though he was no closer to learning of their fate, he was relieved that he did not find their faces locked amongst the others.

Horror rushed in to replace his relief. This totem was like something out of a myth; something embellished over histories until it became a bleak legend. Polas knew many of the stony eyes that stared back at him from its surface. These were innocent people, many too afraid to speak ill of the Exandercrast lest he somehow hear them, and they had died simply because they had lived in his hometown.

He clenched his fists as a tremor ran through his body.

 "Where can I find a sword?"

Matthew smiled. "Your journey begins anew, then? I had hoped and waited for this day. I have read the histories, legends, and prophecies, and have prayed that you would return to lead the people. You can rally the free people once again, strike at Firevers, and destroy Exandercrast once and for all."

"No."

Matthew stopped. "What?"

"No," Polas repeated. "My days as general are over. I am not a leader of men anymore. I’m going to find a sword, and I’m going to drive it though Exandercrast’s black heart. And I am going to find my boy, if he indeed still lives, and pull him from the dark god’s claws."

"You can’t go alone. You just can’t. We need to gather armies, march them to Exandercrast’s front door, and tear him from his lofty tower. You will need soldiers, war wagons, cavalry…"

"No. I marched the largest army this world has ever known to its death in the valleys of Waysmale. I will not lead any other innocent lives into the hereafter."

Polas turned and picked up Matthew’s pouches of food, threw them on the back of the horse, and climbed up.

"Your talk of prophecy reminded me of a debt I’m owed. That will be all the help I need in this, old man."

"You keep calling me 'old man.' Need I remind you that you are over nine hundred years my senior? Perhaps I should call you old man."

"Call me what you will, but I'll have no more of idle talk. Waysmale calls."

Matthew threw up his hands in surrendered protest. "If you insist on being so foolish to think one man can do this on his own, at least pay a visit to your old guildhall in Odes’Kan. There is something there I think you might need."

Polas nodded, turned his horse, and rode away.

 "And you can keep the horse!" Matthew yelled after him.

Matthew watched as Polas disappeared over the horizon heading back to the north. He thought of all the years he had waited for the return of General Polas Kas Dorian, for a chance for Hope to be reborn, for the final breath of the God of Fear. He thought about all those things and smiled.

Then he turned and waved his hands, tearing the very fabric of space. His eyes turned shimmering yellow, and a matching portal, like a flat mirror of citrine gemstones, opened in front of him. The Cairtol took one last look at the totem of Flarcant, scratched his beard, and stepped through the glittering pane. Moments later the portal vanished, and the totem once again stood alone in the sea of grass.