Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (6 page)

He was a short, thin man dressed in a tight black coat and wearing two swords. His collar was upturned and fastened with a buckle over his face. Beneath his tricorn two narrow, squinting eyes stared threateningly at Owein. When he spun around, a long, braided ponytail flung with him.

He disappeared through an open door.

Owein bolted in pursuit.

The man with the ponytail was incredibly fast, and Owein soon found himself guessing his path more than following it. They wound through
Gilderam’s
varied corridors and hallways until the sound of creaking hinges ahead told Owein that the killer had fled outside, to the main deck.

When Owein burst out the hatch, he paused to listen. The
baethes voth
was near-deafening, but he picked up the sound of running footfalls from aft and tore down the deck after it.

Now on an open stretch, Owein took advantage of his superior height and rounded
Gilderam
at full sprint. Soon enough, he could see the murderer racing for the rear of the ship.

Owein ran his hardest to catch up, pumping his arms madly. The man with the ponytail drew his sword, hopped onto the taffrail, and sliced the halyard flying Captain Breld’s flag from the jackstaff. He pulled the flag down and gave Owein one last look before sheathing his sword and jumping right off the back of the ship – leaping clean into the open air beyond.

Panting, Owein slowed to a stop at the railing. He arrived just in time to see his target catch the slipstream of
Gilderam’s
propellers, nestled beneath the main deck, by stretching the flag out before him like a sail. The powerful wake blasted him even farther away into the night sky.

Unwilling to follow the man with the ponytail into certain doom, Owein thought about turning back, but something caught his eye in the sky behind
Gilderam
. As it came into focus Owein could scarcely believe what he saw.

From below a bank of dark clouds came cutting the prow of a ship… a Tricorn ship, still lagging behind, and now several
entilum
down. Owein became unsure if the killer had been as suicidal as he had initially believed while his eyes tracked the falling body and flag across the sky. Was it destined to land on the deck of that ship?

How could anyone calculate that jump?
thought Owein.
That’s impossible
….

It was too dark, though, and Owein lost sight of him in the air.

The door creaked open, spilling a swath of firelight into the shadowy room. Footsteps patted across rough flagstones as a purple robed figure entered. The door swung noisily closed behind him.

“High Father,” he spoke into the gloom.

The room was cavernous, with a vaulted ceiling so high it escaped sight in the darkness overhead. Tall windows along one wall were opened to the cool night air, which breezed in gently through the draperies. Ghostly articles of furniture hunkered all round, amorphous and imposing without the clarity of light.

“My son,” came the reply from an old, rattling throat. The man by the door bowed to the darkness, and a fat, gold pendant dangled from his neck. Reflecting the bright light of Aelmuligo
from outside, the pendant flashed its insignia; the carven image of a tome surrounded by seven letters.

“
Threithum corumuligo
,” he said at the lowest point of his bow.

“
Thos shenwemu
,” echoed back to him from the shadows. “You bring news.”

The man in purple straightened. “I do. Imperial Councilor Thalius has been eliminated, Father.”

A shadow shifted by one of the windows.

“And what of his successor?”

“He has officially declined the office.”

“…For how much?”

“He took only one thousand marks.”

The older voice said something indistinctly. The man in the purple robe guessed it might have been a laugh.

“…Well. Good then. It appears as though everything has fallen into place at last.”

The shadow by the window moved again, dimly revealing the silhouette of a hobbled frame. The hunched form began walking slowly toward the purple robed man, making a little knock on the flagstones with every other step.

“There were never any doubts, Father.”

“
Hmpf
.”

“What do you next require of me?”

“Nothing. You have served us well, my son.” The bent old man crept steadily closer. “Your faith is strong, and your will is sure.”

“My will is yours, Father,” the purple robed man bowed again as the old man lurched at last into view. He too wore robes, but his were deep crimson, and he supported himself on a solid gold staff. His face told the story of extreme age: sagging skin and cold, blue, sunken eyes.

“All we require of you now is to return to Zarothus and continue your duties there. When the time comes, you will be sent for.”

The man in purple straightened from his bow.

“Yes, Father.”

“By the light of Aelmuligo
,
the gods will show us the way. It is time for humanity to once again inherit the earth, just as Geithoron has promised. The Church will reclaim Vuora at long last. Go now. And rejoice to know that you have played a part in the glory to come.”

“Yes, Father.” The purple robed man bowed once more, and his pendant shot a streak of reflected light around the room. Then he left, with the sound of ancient laughter echoing down the hall after him.

The Imperial throne room of Sraia Te Vama was an imposing structure. Built like an amphitheatre, the circular wall climbed fifteen
entilum
and supported an enormous stained glass dome, designed to dramatically alter the lighting within the marble room as the sun moved across the sky. At present, the pale alabaster stone of the throne room was bathed in a stunning, deep red light. Colossal pillars stood around the perimeter like ancient behemoths, and the floor was a steep mountain of stepped marble, leading ultimately to the throne itself, enshrined beneath a golden canopy at the apex.

The Empress was there.

A gong sounded, signaling the introduction of an audience, and pages opened the doors. A staff thundered on the floor, echoing without end around the chamber, as Cardinal Ceras entered. His ancient, bent form shuffled slowly up the steps alongside his many attendants, Terical priests in long black cassocks. Cardinal Ceras’ robes mirrored the same radiant crimson of the throne room.

The Empress sat unmoving atop her throne as her guests processed toward her, a protracted affair given the dimensions of the room. When they reached the appropriate platform, still a full
entil
below the throne, Cardinal Ceras halted the entourage and bowed very low, pressing a fist against his breast.

“Holy Empress,” he said. “I offer you my deepest reverence.”

The Empress waved, barely moving her hand. Ceras stood up as straight as his aged body would allow.

When the Empress spoke, her voice was delicate and feminine, yet sturdy and resolute. Her controlled speaking suggested supreme confidence.

“I have already heard the opinion of the Church regarding the coming war,” she said. “Divar has refused to relinquish its hold of the Memdian Marches. That land has been illegally occupied for seventy-eight years and will be reunited with the Motherland. What more have you to say?”

“Your Majesty speaks of war as if it were inevitable, –”

“My will
is
inevitable.”

Cardinal Ceras was stopped short. To save face, he curled his open mouth into his version of a smile.

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

The Empress waited – serene and motionless.

Ceras went on, “The Empire’s …
interpretation
of the law is in question. The legality of the annexation mentioned in Corebin’s Decree of 1797 is still in dispute. The finest lawyers of the world cannot agree. Divar seems to have legitimate title –”

“Save your breath, Cardinal. Legal banter does not concern me.”

“What does concern Her Royal Majesty?”

“Justice.”

Ceras glared at her, failing outright to mask his contempt. “Your Eminence is aware the Church of Teric has held Communion on this matter?”

“Of course.”

“I am here to present our conclusion. It has been decided by the College of the Church that any act of aggression toward the Called Upon would be in direct contradiction to the Will of the Gods.” He waited to gauge her reaction. She gave none. “In short, war could mean …
excommunication
, Your Majesty.”

“In doing so,” she said, “the Church would only be excommunicating itself. The Empire is the Arm of Geithoron. It cannot violate its own will.”

Cardinal Ceras delivered this carefully, “I’m afraid the Church doesn’t see it that way.”

“Then the Church is in error.”

“Your Majesty, all of our divinings have confirmed this fact: Geithoron and his Children wish for no war. Aelmuligo
is at its perigee, and –”

“The gods have spoken to me directly, Cardinal,” said the Empress, “and I can tell you that your simple rituals are mistaken. Gresadia will make war on Divar, she will reclaim what is rightfully hers, and there will be no further discussion on the matter.”

Ceras fumed, silently enraged. The edges of his mouth twitched.

“Will there be anything else, Cardinal?”

His ancient hand turned white gripping his staff. “No, Your Majesty. I have nothing more,” he said.

“Then you are excused.”

It took Ceras a moment to force himself to bow again before marching back towards the door with a foul grimace upon his face. As he passed through the doors out of the throne room, though, his grimace morphed into a peculiar smirk.

“High Father,” said one of his attendants. “What could possibly please you? Is this not terrible news?”

Cardinal Ceras nearly laughed.

“Oh, quite terrible indeed,” and he strolled off down a corridor, chuckling lightly to himself.

His attendants traded concerned glances before scurrying after him.

The sun was getting fat and red, squashed like a gooey yolk in the west by an oppressive yellow sky. The skies above Val ventured into the extremes of color at both dawn and dusk, reflected by an endless ocean of fine sand beneath. Presently the desert gleamed straw-gold. A brisk wind raked hot air across the dune waves, stirring up an occasional whirlwind.

The wind busily covered up the tracks of a wanderer striding dutifully over the dunes. He was dressed from head to toe in a layered variety of tattered robes, which were beaten nearly to rags by years of use in harsh conditions like these. In one hand a warped branch offered him support, while the other held a heavy sack over his shoulder, murky with bloodstains. He surpassed hill after hill of powdery sand while the breeze tugged at him relentlessly.

Ascending one of the bigger dunes, the wanderer’s destination became visible: a cluster of simple clay shelters, formed into round imitations of the dunes themselves, lying together on a flat patch of desert floor just ahead. It was home to a few hundred people, known as the
Esh Wura
, or dune dwellers. The dwindling tribesmen packed up their wares from bazaars in the center of the village. The dangerous cold of night would soon be upon them.

Children played between the clay huts of the village, and as the wanderer approached a little girl ran out to meet him.

“Father!” she called.

The man knelt to hug her.

“How is my dear Qali?” he asked.

“You’ve been gone all day.”

“Food is growing scarce. I had to travel a long way to find it. But I am here now. Come, let’s go home.”

Inside the one-room adobe house, a solitary lamp hung from the ceiling to provide a scant half-light. A tiny fire smoldered in an oven built into the wall. Qali burst through the rug door, bouncing around with excitement as her father followed her in. His wife, grinding meal with mortar and pestle, rose to greet him.

“Jerahd,” she said, helping him remove his outer cloak. “We’ve missed you.”

Jerahd unraveled his shemagh and let wavy black locks fall free across his sun-browned skin. He had sharp, brown eyes and faded tattoos scrawled on his cheekbones. A short beard of black and grey stubble speckled his face and neck.

He kissed her.

“And I you, Bazah.”

She took the sack from him and brought it to the table to unwrap. Its contents, a thick-skinned desert lizard called a
corthac
,
thumped heavily when she set it down. Already field dressed, she began to skin it.

“Where is Havlah?” asked Jerahd.

“He is praying,” said Bazah. “The
Agnari
has come.”

Jerahd paused.

“Then I must go.” He threw his cloak back on and headed swiftly outside.

It was already quite dark when Jerahd reached the prayer hut beside the bazaar, and pushed back its rug door. Nearly everyone had left. Several candelabra cast ample light around the largest room in the village, which was decorated red and gold with ornate tapestries and carpets. A thick haze of burning incense piqued his nostrils.

Pillowy mats lay across the floor, and Jerahd’s son Havlah was bent over one, praying. The rest were vacant. At the fore of the room there was a meager shrine, and just in front of it sat the
Agnari
– the elder.

The ancient man faced the lonely congregation motionlessly and with eyes closed. He might have been in a trance. Wispy hair draped from his head and a long, scraggy white beard clung to his chin. Deep wrinkles cut trenches around his eyes and through his forehead.

Jerahd doffed his cloak and took up position next to his son, kneeling on a prayer mat. He closed his eyes and expelled all the air from his lungs. Slowly, he drew in a deep, practiced breath through his nose. When the exhale came, Jerahd muttered something inaudibly, like a quiet chant. He drew in another long breath. During the next exhale, Havlah and the
Agnari
chanted with him in perfect unison, their breathing synchronized. At its conclusion Jerahd bent forward and touched his forehead to the floor.

Then he was upright again, facing the
Agnari
. Looking past him, Jerahd eyed the statue of the god Votoc in the shrine. Standing erect in regal robes, the idol held aloft a quill in one hand, while the other pressed a scroll to his chest.

Votoc, one of the twelve gods, was the son of Geithoron and the patron deity of wisdom, wonder and the pursuit of knowledge. Though he was the father of all elves, their creator, Jerahd’s human kinsmen identified with his ideals, and so chose to follow Votoc over the other gods. His stern face atop the shrine, crafted rather crudely out of a dull metal, still communicated an air of kingly reverence and cold love.

“Jerahd,” spoke the
Agnari
abruptly, and without opening his eyes. “Please remain.”

Havlah looked to his father, then obediently rose and left the hut. Jerahd and the
Agnari
, now alone, sat in silence for a long while breathing together.

“You have heard of war in the south, have you not?” asked the
Agnari
.

“Yes. Saria has been invaded by the Geldr.”

“And do you know why?”

“They seek iron in the mountains.”

“That is what we had thought, too. Until recently.” The elder’s eyes opened, revealing two striking, bluish-white irises. “In truth, they seek something far worse. Jerahd, you are a good man and a fair father. Votoc has blessed you infinitely. But the time has come when he must be paid back.”

“I will do anything,” said Jerahd, bowing again to the floor.

“Votoc’s Disciples have been summoned once more.” Jerahd’s head hovered just above the carpet, suspended in hesitation. He slowly sat upright.

“The Disciples? But why? Geldr’thal poses no threat to Val. They have no interest here, and even if they did, our desert shroud protects us from –”

“The horde is only passing through Saria. Their ultimate destination is the Tomb of Feth.”

Jerahd swallowed gravely. “You mean… you believe this is part of the prophecy…?”

“It is written in the Book of Teric that the first sign of the End of Days will be a faltering of faith worldwide. Arguably, that has been occurring for centuries, but the corruption of the Church is more certain now than ever. Next, it is written that the two greatest powers of Vuora shall enter into an unjust war. Gresadia plans to invade Divar, under the pretext of some ancient trifle.” The
Agnari
leaned forward and spoke in nearly a whisper. “After that, as you will remember, a black army will march in search of the hidden Tomb.”

“You mean… they’re attempting to… but that’s impossible. The location of the Tomb cannot be known – it’s guarded by the desert itself. And even if they found it, there’s no one alive who can perform the ritual.”

“We don’t know that. But we do know this: they must not be allowed to try. Votoc has given us warning that the End may be approaching faster than we thought. I don’t have to quote scripture to you, Jerahd… if they were to find him, if they could actually recall Feth into this world…. Well, it would be the
end
of this world.”

Jerahd set his jaw. “What are my orders?”

“You leave tomorrow at dawn. You will meet with the other Disciples at the Rwahji Crater. We know that they must pray there for the Dark One to show them the way. If they are successful, the very earth itself, it is said, will direct them to the Tomb. That is where the army of Val will ambush the horde in four days’ time.”

Jerahd’s eyes fell downward.

“Yours is a worthy soul,” said the
Agnari
. “I know Votoc will care for you. He has shown me.”

“What have you seen?”

“His angel has appeared to me. She told me you are to be the Right Hand of Votoc in the days to come. You are destined for a long journey, Jerahd, and a great one. I have faith in Him… and in you.”

“I serve Him willingly,” said Jerahd, bowing to the floor again. He stayed bowed a little longer than usual before rising to leave the prayer hut.

On the way back, Jerahd was met by his wife outside their home. Without a word, he wrapped her in his arms and held her for a very long while. They stood entirely still together beneath the star-lit canopy, defying the chilling wind that sailed over the dunes. The icy gale blasted Jerahd’s back and stole his breath away, but Bazah breathed new warmth into him.

She seemed to already know.

And both of them understood.

The next morning, just before the sun peaked over the eastern horizon, the sky was a dazzling, deep purple. Thin streaks of wispy clouds dragged forever across its face, as though they encircled the whole globe.

Jerahd, once again bedecked in his traveling garments, brought the last of his provisions from the house, heavy saddlebags and a bundle of cloth. He threw the saddlebags over his camel, then carefully unwrapped the cloth bundle to check its contents.

Inside was a broad-bladed desert sword, crafted into an unusual swish. The hybrid of a scimitar and a machete, its tilde-shaped blade fattened out near the hilt and tip, tapering slightly in between. Thousands of tiny nicks evidenced a long history of use, ground down with care, but never fully erased.

Nestled with it was a crescent-shaped dagger and sheaths for both. As he secured the weapons in the saddlebags, the sound of hooves tromping through sand caught his attention.

He was surprised to see his son Havlah, similarly dressed for desert travel, wearing an old, flowing brown bisht over his tunic. His eyes, gleaming through the opening in his tagelmust, were bright and defiant.

Jerahd waited for him to speak.

“I’m coming with you, Father,” he said.

Jerahd turned his back to him, adjusting the saddlebags. “Return that camel to where you found it and go inside,” he said.

“I’m coming with.”

Jerahd’s hands stopped moving. He sighed. “Havlah, I’m not accustomed to having to repeat myself with you.”

“Then don’t. This is my country too, and I will fight for it. That is my right. I am no longer a boy. I am a
Hapali
.”

“And who will look after your mother and sister? Who will hunt for them? Who will carry their water?”

Havlah was silent. Jerahd turned to face him.

“My son,” he said, “you are young. You may be a man now in the eyes of our law, but not in the eyes of our world. You could help your country fight this war, or you could help your family at home. You cannot do both.”

“You’re going.”

“I don’t have a choice. You do.”

Havlah locked eyes with his father.

“I’m coming,” he said resolutely.

Jerahd walked up to his son and grabbed him by the bisht. With a single heave, he pulled the boy from his saddle and threw him into the ground. A cloud of dusty sand rose from the impact. As Havlah coughed, Jerahd hoisted him to his feet and half-dragged him to the door of their home.

“Jerahd,” called out an old man’s voice.

He stopped.

Standing nearby was the
Agnari
, leaning on a spindly staff. Jerahd released his son as the old man hobbled near them. He was not dressed for the elements, and the morning breeze blasted him with grains of sand. He squinted at them.

“Punish your son no more,” said the
Agnari
. “He is to go with you.”

Jerahd’s dark eyes widened.

“He may be a
Hapali
, but he is still my son.”

“It is Votoc’s Will that he go.”

Jerahd shared a long, hard gaze with the
Agnari
.

“Votoc’s Will…” he echoed dimly.

“You will take the boy with you.”

Havlah looked from his father to the
Agnari
and back, waiting. Jerahd took a deep breath and hung his head.

“As Votoc commands…” he said at last.

Jerahd looked into his son’s eyes, and the pain Havlah saw there startled him. It changed his mind instantly. Suddenly he wanted to stay. He wanted to obey his father, to make things right, but before he could say anything Jerahd had already turned around and was mounting his camel. The
Agnari
had spoken. Now neither of them had a choice anymore.

As Havlah retrieved his ride, the sun broke free in the east, spilling the first rays of morning light in streaks across the sandy desert floor. Jerahd wheeled around on his camel, and as he did he was illuminated by the warm sunlight, which had yet to shine on the landscape behind him. The effect was inspiring, a rare contrast between the dull darkness of pre-dawn and the bright radiance of the day-breaking sun, temporarily reserved only for his father. Atop his camel he looked like a saint, or an angel – glorious and profound.