Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (17 page)

The hearts of the Vali sank to their feet when they saw what came next.

Near the altar, a fountain of rock and sand shot into the air. The blast was pure violence. It rocketed vertically, but at the apex of its ascent it arced slightly to one side. The sediment it launched fell toward the direction it leaned, and a column of dust floated that way too, propelled by a ghostly breeze. The chill zephyr swept all the way across the bowl, reminding everyone that the air had been perfectly still until then.

Those in the Crater knew it was the sign the horde had come for. The Dark One had harnessed the earth to answer their ritual, and it told them the direction of the Tomb… north-northeast.

A chorus of booming cheers followed, thousands upon thousands of hopeful half-orcs screaming praises to their malevolent deity. The sound shook the Crater almost as much as the quake had moments ago. Collectively the horde abandoned their confrontation with the desert people and stampeded in the direction of the blast.

The army of Val was trampled underfoot, unable to resist the charge of the oversized Geldr. Their delicate, robed bodies proved little obstacle for the renewed fervor of their enemies. Those who were especially quick ran out of the way or fled for cover. Few were quick enough.

The bearded man had sensed danger and took off running for the rim before anyone else had realized what was happening. Havlah followed him out of reflex, so when the chase began the two had a head start, and were already clawing their way up the tuff rim. The pounding of thousands of feet behind them blended with the continued shaking of the ground, and the snowballing sense of frenzy blinded everyone to what was happening inside the Crater.

There was another eruption by the altar, much larger than the first. Then a third one, even bigger than that. Each killed a battalion of grey monsters, blasting them into the air, and then rained hunks of rock on the rest. Once the Geldr realized that the first few explosions were only a prelude to what was to come, they no longer ran for demonic glory, but for their very lives.

A huge swath of Crater floor, half an
itth
long, fractured with a deafening, rumbling boom. Deep fissures cracked open all across it.

Then it detonated.

The whole piece exploded hundreds of
entilum
straight into the air, crumbling as it went, and taking a few brigades along with it. A gigantic cloud of superheated steam was right behind it to melt the skin right off the bones of any Geldr nearby.

Everyone still trapped in the Crater was knocked to the ground by the force of the blast. Havlah and the old man had just reached the top of the rim when it happened, and the man with the white beard was thrown forward over the edge. He fell all the way down before landing neck-first on a boulder.

Havlah was almost cast off as well, but was lucky enough to grab a handhold on the edge of the plateau. As the Rwahji Crater viciously tossed and battered both armies with its tremors, Havlah found the strength to pull himself up. Before surmounting the top, the rocky ledge jolted and sent him rolling uncontrollably down its side. 

Inside, the altar was the next to go. It flew skyward, propelled by a torrent of hot steam. The priests were incinerated in midair, and the contents of their chests were scattered for
itthum
around. Smaller jets of steam popped up everywhere, burning Vali and half-orc flesh alike. Rolling and falling rock claimed a number of lives too, crushing bone, iron, and steel like twigs.

When Havlah regained himself outside the Crater, the storm of fleeing bodies caught his attention. They threw themselves frantically over the rim, tumbling hazardously down, and flew crazed into the desert night. Geldr ran beside Vali, each forgetting the battle to save themselves. Boulder-sized debris landed all around, catapulted from inside the Crater, and bowled over scores at a time.

Halvah found a crevice beneath an outcropping of rock and sidled himself inside it.

After the first eruption inside the Crater, the Disciples had wasted no time in abandoning their plans. Just as the horde had been unaware of their arrival, they were unaware of their departure. The furtive warriors snuck noiselessly away, hurrying northeast to get ahead of the pack.

They slunk unnoticed around the Crater, moving together like one big shadow across the desert floor. They dodged falling rock as it came, and tidily dispatched any escaping Geldr who foolishly, and unknowingly, ran into their midst.

Outside the chaos of the disintegrating Crater, the remnants of both armies ran scattered and disbanded through the desert. The horde, at least, concentrated its retreat north-northeast. The survivors were hell-bent on finding the Tomb, and would not rest until they did.

The Disciples returned to the camp first. There, tethered some distance from the Crater, makeshift stables held thousands of camels and other beasts of burden. They would saddle up and ride to the Tomb in hopes of outpacing the horde.

Jerahd, floating between cover, came to a sudden halt. Something caught his attention in the darkness. He stalked closer to the Crater, crossing from a stump of rock to a flimsy cactus. A half-orc came bumbling his direction and he leapt out of hiding in a blur to slay the beast with a single, well-aimed slash of his sword. He hid from a few more before jogging the rest of the way to the base of the Crater’s wall, approaching the foundation of a large boulder.

“Havlah,” he said, extending a hand. His son took it, and Jerahd pulled him out of the crevice.

“Father…!” said Havlah in disbelief. He couldn’t say more before he was engulfed in a crushing hug.

“Come,” said Jerahd, releasing him. “We must go.”

And the two sped for the stables.

With the vast majority of the horde still inside the bowl, an incredibly loud, grumbling roll of thunder reverberated upward from the depths of the earth. The Crater trembled more violently than ever, and crevasses ripped apart whatever ground was left standing. Then, after the space of a breath, the whole Rwahji Crater upended itself in a fantastic eruption.

A column of boiling red lava two
itthum
wide belched up from the bowels of the desert and disintegrated the entire floor of the bowl in one great squall. A whole army was liquefied instantaneously, and countless tons of pyroclastic rock and sand was hurled skyward.

Most of the molten rock splashed back into the Crater and careened up its steep walls for a second vaulting into the air. Great gobs of it flung out in every direction, dumping hot ooze all across the desert floor. Hundreds upon hundreds were killed on contact, steamrolled by the glowing, liquid rock.

A red-tinged twilight emanated from the Crater to light the way for fleeing survivors who had so far been spared the carnage. They would still be assailed by raining dreck for hours to come. 

In its aftermath, those who lived to see it witnessed the miracle of the Crater. The smoking pit vomited a fog of volcanic gas into the air, and the whole of the discharge bent inexorably in one direction: north-northeast.

Gilderam
came low on approach into New Gresad, hurrying to beat a wicked-looking storm in the west. The dark wall of brooding clouds coasted slowly towards them, and sheets of rain hung underneath it like fuzzy curtains. Faraway timpani rolls of thunder signaled its coming, and encouraged the denizens of Gresadia’s capital on the ground to walk with a quickened gait to their destinations.

On the portside deck, leaning over the rail, Shazahd Ranaloc stared into the oncoming storm with a look of reverent fascination. Her brow was slightly scrunched and her lips were parted. The heartroot buzzed against her chest.

She heard footsteps on the deck. Vrei was coming to join her.

“Captain.”

“Mistress Ranaloc.” She leaned on the rail beside her.

“Have you been getting acquainted with the ship?”

“Oh yes. A marvelous machine.”

“Have you found your room yet?”

“No. Not yet. Those
mlec
corridors are so confusing. I swear they rearrange themselves every time I try to get anywhere.”

“That does take some getting used to. Look, you can see Aelmuligo.” Shazahd nodded to the heavenly body half-obscured by the storm. Though it was on the rise, the tempest was faster, and would soon overtake it. “The last time it was here,” Shazahd said, “I was an infant. A newborn baby.”

“Born under the House of the Gods? That’s a good omen.”

“Maybe. I was supposed to be married during its perigee. Now we’ll be too late getting to Divar. We’ll miss it.”

“Hardly worth waiting another twenty-two years for, though, isn’t it?”

“You’re right about that. I don’t like waiting.”

There was a pause as they overlooked the planet together. Even a sliver of it, dim with daylight, was mesmerizing.

“Your father has certainly outdone himself with this ship,” Vrei said at last. “Am I ever going to meet him?”

“He likes to stay put in his chamber…. You’ll meet him. Eventually.” Shazahd lost herself in the storm clouds.

“What does he do? In his chamber for hours on end?”

“
Days
on end, sometimes. And I… I have no idea, really. Working on new projects, I suppose. New ideas.”

“Well, what’s he working on?”

“I… don’t know. Could be anything. This ship is his latest invention. It’s taken him years. He began work on it when I was only a little girl, just after –” Shazahd cut herself off. Vrei could tell something was wrong.

“What?”

“Just after my mother died.”

“Oh.”

“It was a long time ago. Though I don’t think my father has ever forgiven himself. It was an accident, in his workshop, but it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Ever since then, he’s been a little …reclusive.”

“So reclusive not even his only daughter knows what he’s up to?”

“I’m used to that. He was away for most of my life, working. I didn’t really know him. He was just a wild-haired old man I heard stories about. It’s only recently we’ve begun forming a true relationship.”

“How recently?”

Shazahd paused for a long while. “I grew up in Divar,” she said at last, “with the tree elves. He was in the north, in Zunir, working on
Gilderam’s
engine design.”

“Why Zunir?”

“He was invited.”

“To build an airship? The Zunirans don’t have a single vessel.”

“Evidently some snow elf admired his work. But really I think he wanted to leave Gresadia. Escape the past. He’s never fully come to terms with what happened. I wish – I just wish that….”

“What?”

“There’s a healing ritual the elves can perform. In Divar. It mends the heart, mind, body and soul. I think my father could really benefit from it, but… he’s not interested in healing.”

“Hm.”

“This voyage into Divar will probably be the last time he’s allowed to set foot there. I expect I’ll live the rest of my life in the forest with them. I worry about my father….”

“You? Worry?” said Vrei disbelievingly. “Don’t be ridiculous. If your father wants to be miserable, then that’s his choice. You’re not responsible for that. You have a duty to take care of yourself only.”

“It’s not that simple. He’s the only family I have.”

“Family is not something we’re born into,” said Vrei. “Family is something we earn. It’s a choice.” Shazahd turned to look at Vrei. The Raven Queen stared into the storm with a brazen fearlessness in her eyes. But the chaos inside her was tempered by an iron resolution painstakingly forged through years of piratical experience.

“I had a family,” said Vrei. “We sailed the skies together. My brothers lived and died for me. I would’ve died for them….” Vrei faced Shazahd. “The gods grant us opportunities when and where they see fit. But sometimes they forget about us.” Vrei looked back into the storm. “And then we have to make our own opportunities.”

The Ranaloc Shipyard and Machinery Works compound was on the northwestern outskirts of New Gresad, in the industrial district. Comprised of a small foundry, a manufacturing plant, a workshop, and several hangars, the shipyard was perched atop the steep, rocky cliffs of the coastline, jutting out over the choppy waters of the Baeno Leir. From the air it was marked by the Ranaloc Tower, a tall, dark spike sticking out above the watery horizon.

Through New Gresad flowed the Vulc Muri, which broke into dozens of grachten, or street-lined canals, that minced apart the city before emptying into the ocean. To the east, the minarets of the Imperial Palace, a rich variety of commercial skyscrapers, and the narrow, serrated steeples of a hundred churches etched a magnificent skyline.

Churches had been built for all the gods, but the Temple of Geithoron, King of the Gods, was the largest church in the world, made recognizable by two colossal, jagged spires that rose up over its entrance. His daughter Wrasada, the patron goddess of New Gresad, held the next largest structure. Her siblings Gorog, Zarothus, Almarad, Votoc, and Anthiath possessed other exquisite places of worship as well.

Law prohibited the construction of temples exclusively for Thuldarus anymore, but his children had a few. Between them, Bluwhris and Faltilus were by far the most popular, being the gods of war and gluttony, respectively. Their sisters, Nomari and Dolus, were petitioned only for the rare occasions of extreme sadness, calamity, or misery.

After floating over sprawling neighborhoods of slate-roofed houses packed tightly between spindly streets and winding waterways, the Ranaloc Shipyard finally welcomed them home.

The rain arrived in New Gresad as
Gilderam
piloted low to the ground, inching into an awaiting hangar. The charcoal sky blotted out any trace of the setting sun beyond.

The rain intensified as Owein walked downtown to his apartment. He lived in one of the most densely populated neighborhoods, sandwiched between the business district and the slums. He carried a huge duffel bag over his back and a heavy sack in his other hand for the long walk home. His clothes were completely saturated by the rain before he had left the shipyard. His feet squished inside his boots with every step.

Owein hated being wet, and the look on his face made this very clear. He was so disgruntled, in fact, that the whores who would usually solicit him along his shortcut through the red-light district kept their distance from him instead. They clustered beneath the eves, safe from the rain, and leered at him as he stomped by.

Owein didn’t see very many other people out that night. For that, he was thankful. He basked in the emptiness of the streets. Crowds irritated him, and New Gresad was typically a crowded place.

When he got home he threw his bags down in the middle of the floor. They splatted there, and dripped a puddle. Owein was quick to light a fire.

He lived in a simple, single room on the second story of a modest apartment building. It was old and wooden, with beams bowing out here and cracks gaping there, the result of a ruthless combination of time and weather. He kept minimal furniture, a table, a singe chair, and a lumpy bed. Above the washbasin there was a window. Nothing could be said for decoration, save for a single peeling poster on one wall, which had belonged to the place before Owein moved in.

He stripped naked in front of the fireplace and knelt before the crackling flames. Owein dried himself in its heat, dabbing his body and hair with a ratty towel. When he was satisfied that he was safe from pneumonia, he got up and took out a bottle and glass from a dingy cupboard. He poured himself some of the dark liquid and drank it solemnly.

The fluid singed the back of his throat, and he imagined what it would be like to collapse onto his bed and go to sleep. He fantasized about surrendering to the feeling of complete stillness. It would be the perfect antidote for his exhaustion. He imagined the sheets against his skin and the sound of the crepitating fire, slowly dying.

And then he cursed softly to himself, because he knew that his bed, though just across his room, was still several hours away. He had to go out again tonight. Back out into the rain. Out to risk his health and life in the wet cold so that he might learn why somebody would want him dead. There was someone who would know.

Owein drained the remainder of his drink and dumped the contents of his duffel bag onto his bed. Some of the clothes in the middle were sort of dry. He dressed, threw on his sopping overcoat, and was out the door.

The south of New Gresad was hillier, and heavily forested. It was where the mansions of the peers could be found, the city houses of landowners, far away from their vast plantations in the country.

Ranaloc’s estate was there, and he and Shazahd were brought to it in a horse-drawn carriage. His driveway was long and straight, flanked on both sides by neat rows of tall, thin trees. It led to a cul-de-sac at the steps of his chateau, a beastly structure of pale stone. Both regal and comfortable, the house blended classical elements of Dontian castles with modern flourishes, fusing centuries of architectural techniques together into one, new form – a successful hybrid of styles. The audacity of it, genius of it, and the functionality of it was a credit to Ranaloc’s own design. At night, and in the rain, it loomed over the grounds like a shadowy fortress of glass and stone.

Liveried servants were outside with umbrellas in hand to receive their master and his daughter.

“Good evening, Lord Ranaloc,” they said. “Welcome home.”

Inside it was warm and dry. Gas lamps set the mansion aglow, revealing parquet marble floors and alabaster cornices in the flickering light. Servants helped Shazahd and Mentrat out of their coats.

“Father,” said Shazahd. “Now that we’re home, might I have a word?”

“Have the papers been collected?” Mentrat asked Rom, the head servant. The burly footman looked to Shazahd without answering.

“Father, you’ve been locked in your chamber all day, and I wanted to –”

“The
papers?
” he flared.

“…I do believe so, My Lord,” said Rom. “They should be in your study, with the post.”

“Good,” and he sped off.

“Father,” Shazahd called after him. “
Father!
”

Mentrat didn’t turn around. “And put on some tea, would you?” he said over his shoulder.

The servants stood around for moment, unsure of what to do. “Will you be requiring anything, Mistress?” one of them asked her.

“No, thank you,” she said quietly, and headed for the staircase.

“There will be supper served in one half –”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

And she was gone.

Ranaloc plopped himself down at his desk, a vast hunk of heavy darkwood, the kind used in shipbuilding. The study was rich, warm and cozy – full of browns and greens, and carpeted blood red. Custom bookcases walled the room from floor to ceiling, filled to capacity with all manner of books, bric-a-brac, and oddities. A grand, latticed bay window overlooked the east garden. A telescope sat atop a tripod in front of it, gazing outside. Rain pitter-pattered softly on glass.

The desk was covered in heaps of letters, parcels and newspapers. Mentrat rummaged through them briefly before selecting a particular newspaper. He skimmed the front page and then unfurled it, jumping from headline to headline. The light was a little too dim, so he lit the lamp on his desk with a flint lighter and turned up the knob at its base, increasing the flow of gas. While watching the flame grow, Ranaloc thought he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. It looked almost like the form of a body passing by his window.

He froze instinctively, his hand glued to the knob, and stared out the window waiting for another movement that might confirm what he thought he just saw, or prove that it was nothing. It was difficult to see anything out that window. The night was especially dark, and rain streaming down the glass further obscured the view.