IV. Gedain
Gatekeeper
Gedain and five riders pressed on in haste for the High Gate, climbing the old mountain wagon trail as it coiled upwards into the foothills of the Norzcarpe. On the third morn, the sky dimmed beneath a veil of gray haze, and ere midday a wet spring snow began to fall, heavy and clinging. Still, they urged their mounts onward, upward, the path softening to mire beneath their steed’s iron shoes. The horses labored, sides heaving, nostrils flaring with mist.
When at last they rose above the shelter of the forest, the winds descended upon them in howls and gusts, as though the mountain itself bid to scour them from its shoulder. One mare slipped, hooves scraping stone, nearly tumbling down the cliff with her rider.
“We must turn back,” shouted one above the wail, clutching reins.
“Onward, you cowards!” Gedain cursed, shielding his eyes from the pelting sleet. “Would a little snow undo you?”
Clods of ice and snow soon crusted their brows and beards. Their cloaks snapped like torn banners in the gale. Blinded, they placed their trust wholly upon the instincts of their groaning steeds. All that day they climbed onward, upward upon the treacherous road, oblivion falling away to their left unseen, marching until the skies dimmed and daytime ended.
Then, without warning, as if by divine command, the wind ceased with the sound of a ghastly shriek. The storm fog lifted, and the frozen mist dissolved, revealing the narrow trail before them. There, in the gray of twilight, rose the High Gate, its ancient bars anchored within the jagged granite cleft, barring a cave black as night. Above it, set in the clearing heavens, burned the Light-Bearer— Vê, brilliant as a diamond set into the firmament just beyond the grasp of the world.
“What is that?” a rider asked, his voice unsteady.
“The Gate, you fool,” Gedain answered.
“No, my lord.” the rider cried, pointing. “There! On the cliff!” They turned as one to the shadows along the rock face. “There it is! Do you see it?”
“Aye. What manner of beast is that?”
“A goat?”
“Aye, a goat,” Gedain answered curtly. “Nevermind it. To The Gate.” Yet even as he spoke, the creature moved, leaping nimbly from stone to stone, skirting ledges where no horse might tread, drawing ever nearer.
“Look! It stands on two legs like man!”
The creature had indeed stood, and this struck terror into the hearts of the riders, for none had ever seen such a creature in all their lives, save for the ones placed into their minds by their cruel grandmothers that they be made to fear the forest.
“It is a faun, a devil,” cried one. “Kill it!”
Two riders spurred forward, drawing their crossbows. Bolts flew and shattered harmlessly upon the icy rocks. They spanned again and shot, missing once more. On the third attempt, one rider fumbled in haste; his horse stumbling, and only by fortune did he not tumble screaming into the abyss. The creature laughed with a low, mirthful sound, and drifted nearer, almost floating among the stones. The riders wheeled their mounts into a tight ring upon the narrow road, swords drawn, knuckles white upon their hilts.
Another bolt flew wide. The creature laughed again, amused. Then it spoke. “Fear me not,” it said, spreading its empty hands. Its eyes were human, bright with amber mischief and knowing, set in the face of a man but with ram’s horns. “As thou seest, I bear no weapon.”
“It is Azarius,” cried a rider. “The Prophet foretold.”
The faun laughed mockingly. “I am not He. He weareth only the likeness of a man.”
“Begone then, devil!”
“Devil, thou callest me,” the creature replied. “Yet I am called Veorn. And I know of whom you hunt. He is called Menek. Follow me and I will take you to him…”
The faun pranced between the rocks along the cliff toward the gate, as light as a maiden dancer. Gedain followed, and the others after him, fear-bound yet unwilling to be left behind. Gedain dismounted thereupon, yet with his sword in hand, he approached the gate’s iron bars, thick with rust and years. He shook and pried as the faun watched and laughed from the rocks.
“It is locked,” Gedain remarked. “Tell me who unlocked it for Menek?”
“There is but one key, Gedain of Welf.”
Gedain stiffened. “How knowest thou my name?”
Veorn tilted his horned head. “Oh, thou art known to him. And thou art long expected, my prince.”
“It is a snare,” urged a rider. “We should not linger.”
“Hast thou the key?” Gedain demanded.
“I do not, my prince,” Veorn answered. “Yet the gate was opened for him who passed before thee. And it will be opened for thee as well.”
Gedain pondered, then his eyes hardened upon the faun. “For what price, then?”
The wind stirred above, shrieking through the jagged spires.
“Price?” Veorn asked.
“Aye. Name it.”
“The price be thine honor,” Veorn answered, grinning.
“How wilst though open it without the key? Gedain pressed.”
“Try again,” Veorn urged. “It is old. Rust binds.”
Gedain hesitated a moment. Then he sheathed his blade, set both hands upon the bars, and heaved with all his might. With a groan of rusted metal, the ancient gate lurched free and swung outward upon its hinges.
“Beware, my prince,” Veorn offered. “Once passed, there is no turning back.”
Undaunted, Gedain mounted his steed and spurred him through. Behind him, the others passed as well, one whispering a prayer while Veorn tittered.
Revelation
In the nether depths of Gruen’s keep, where the stone sweats cold and the air lays thick with stench, the failed assassin Joles passed his days awaiting his end. Knowing neither dawn nor dusk, time was measured only by the arrival of hunger and thirst.
At length, Joles was removed from his cell and cast into another, where already lay the Neandilim envoy. They did not speak for the first full day, silence pressing upon them like a third prisoner, until at last Joles, maddened by the hum of flies and the ceaseless drip-drip-drip of water upon stone, broke it.
“Art thou the spy they caught?” He asked, “the Nundi?”
The envoy gave no answer.
Joles pressed. “Tell me,” his voice rasped raw by thirst. “Dost thou think to see thy homeland again?”
At last, the envoy stirred in the shadows. When he spoke, his voice was clear and unhurried, as though the dungeon were but a chamber in some common hall. “If I endure until our host comes, then yes,” he said.“
“Comes to here? To Gruen?” Joles scoffed. “Bafomet will never drive an army o’er the Norzcarpe.”
The Neandilim rustled in the darkness, scraping the stone floor beneath the straw. “Thy name is Joles, correct?” He asked mildly. “Thou art the failed assassin?”
“Yet I failed only because I was betrayed.”
“By whom?”
“I know not. Perhaps Menek, my captain. Perhaps another. I was not trusted with the other names.”
“Oh, but we know their names, my friend.”
Joles rolled his eyes. “Oh? Who are they, then?”
“If I named them,” replied the Neandilim, “thou would yield them and they would lose their greater use. Better for us they remain unknown.” He paused, then added, “Yet thou art correct in one thing…”
“In what?”
“That no army may cross the Norzcarpe in force. Its narrowness is death to invaders.”
“Then how,” Joles demanded, “does thy master mean to come to Gruen?”
The envoy shifted in the shadow. “Any man with sense could answer, were he not blinded by fear. One need only look upon a proper map.”
“I seem to have misplaced my map,” Joles sneered. “Please enlighten me.”
The Nundi grunted. “To conquer the Norlands,” he said, “one must first come north from Gatun, far enough west of the mountains that bar the way.”
“Yet Bafomet does not hold that port.”
“Not yet. First must Varenthor must submit.”
Joles barked in laughter. “Varenthor hath never been taken. It is said the mighty Gargan raised its walls themselves.”
“True,” said the envoy. “And her fleet is stout as well. Yet Varenthor is ruled not by kings, but by a counsel of merchants. And merchants value peace so long as trade flows freely.”
“Then how wilt thou break them? Bribery?”
“Nay. By persuasion.”
“And how would that be wrought?”
A quiet breath. “Have you ever beheld a raptor, Joles?”
Joles did not reply.
The envoy’s voice darkened. “They stand four men tall, black iron scales, their eyes burn as amber set aflame.
“Imagine yourself a trader seeing twenty of them set upon your mercantile roads. Imagine yourself standing on Varenthor’s walls, beholding Bafomet’s host marching with rams and siege towers. Imagine the war drums thundering, banners lifting in the wind… thirty thousand warriors, four thousand cavalry.” The envoy’s voice grew almost reverent. “When our marshals come offering gold and peace, I art certain Varenthor’s gates will open gladly. And they will then call us ally.”
Joles’ mirth withered.
“From thence,” the envoy continued, “our host will sail beneath Varenthor’s colors, cross the bay, and land at Gatun. Its walls are far weaker. It will fall within days, or we’ll merely set it ablaze. Then northward our host will march to Longview.”
“Yes, Longview Castle,” Joles interrupted. “You’ll never take it.”
“Not without the might of raptors swinging our great ram. By them it will fall. Then onward to Dregrove… Fywold… Gruen.”
Joles could hear the envoy grin in the shadows as his voice grew cold.
“Methundor shall thus be sundered, and devoured as one eats a fowl— leg, then wing, then breast… piece by piece.”
A rat darted through the straw. Water beat its slow, hollow rhythm upon stone. The flies hummed in assent.
“The Norlands will muster,” Joles said hoarsely. “They will meet thee at Longview or…”
“No,” said the envoy, his voice softening. “Your reiks will not answer. Not enough of them. You Norland men spend your days devouring one another when you should be forging unity. But thou knowest this well already.”
Joles fell silent.
“There are many others like me, here,” the envoy went on. “Spies, as you call us. We are scattered all throughout your lands. We are watching. Listening. Encouraging suspicion. Turning brother against brother, thegn upon thegn. Yet whether Longview sees a great battle matters little. Your host will be shattered within days, outnumbered thrice or fourfold. Your lines and battlements will fold like sandcastles beneath the tide.” He leaned forward just revealing his brow in the faint glow. “…And when thy army lies broken, Gruen will stand bare. Then we shall come here, to this very dungeon, and I shall walk free. I need only survive until then,” he said softly. “A year, perhaps less. By then, thou, wilt be long dead. Though I pray for thee not slain by the saw.”
“Not so,” Joles snarled. “We shall fight as partisans. From the woods and hills and passes.”
“For a time,” the envoy allowed “Weeks, months at most. Then thy fields will lie untilled. And hunger will gnaw deeper than courage. The fear of a winter without stores will finish what war begins.”
“We will starve before we kneel!”
“No, you will not,” said the envoy gently. “You will kneel when you hear the sobs of your orphaned and hungry children. We have seen this play enacted many times, in many lands. A swift defeat is the kinder fate for thy children.”
“Our children shall never be Nundi slaves.”
“Yes, they will. But they shall live at least and eventually prosper. And in a generation, thy world shall be all dust, replaced with ours… forever. But thou shalt be remembered, Joles. I will see to it. For even though thy plot was foiled, thy deed served us well. Thy boy rex is now frightened, mistrustful, and searching every shadow. He is no leader of men.”
The envoy leaned further into the dim shaft of light, and Joles saw his face which bore the look of certainty. And the spy’s voice then fell to a dark whisper. “…And we have already chosen your rex’s successor.” A pause. “And he is one of thine own.”
Descent
The mist lay thick upon the narrow mountain path as they descended from the High Gate. It clung and soaked through cloak and tunic alike, beading upon beard and lash, until each man rode sodden and shivering. The horses huffed low in their chests, and their hooves beat the stony way with hollow, funereal rhythm. For three days Veorn urged them onward, ever downward, as though drawing them from the world of breath and sun into some unseen Tartarus of haze.
By night came the distant drums of war, low and slow, echoing as from the pulse of the earth itself; and each man dreamed of standing before the dragon. “I fear, sire,” whispered one at last, daring the words only in the thick blackness where no faces could be seen.
“What is it thou fearest?” Gedain answered.
“I fear dying here, my lord.”
Gedain did not pause to ponder. “Then fear thee not,” he said, “for we are already dead.”
By days, which were scarcely more than an illumination of haze, they marched until the dimming made it treacherous on the weathered trail. The further they descended, the thicker the mist and haze grew, dampening even their words and the beats of hooves. There were no sights or calls of bird nor stirring of beast, just five riders and Gedain and their horses, and the fleeting figure of Veorn, resembling more an apparition than a guide of flesh, leading the way half-seen, half-imagined, in the grey mist ahead.
In the rare moments the veil was lifted, they found themselves threaded within a murky forest of black pines and coiling fern, their tangled trunks and branches wove in and through like a snaring web of dread. And nary a path lay beneath their horse’s hooves, save for the faint, stoney way that found them and pulled them along, as if they were sliding along the scales of some mythic serpent exceeding their comprehension. Above, the sheer, jagged walls of black stone rose, towering upwards ominously on every side, as if Edä herself were slowly closing her jaws upon them.
“Is this our damnation, sire?” asked one.
Gedain gave no answer.
Again, the night’s ink filled with the beat of drums, nearer and louder than the last. And each man, exhausted beyond his ability to reason, resisted sleep both for fear of what lurketh in the darkness, and for what terrors awaited them in their nightmares.
They rose again not knowing the hour, for the fog was so thick one had to near swim through it.
“Where is the river?” Gedain asked Veorn who was rustling unseen in the grey. “Doth not the road followeth its descent?”
“There is no river by this way,” Veorn answered. “Yet this is the road that leadeth unto whom thou seekest.”
“He leadeth us into a trap,” whispered a rider.
Gedain heard yet gave him no heed.
On and on they descended, and on the fifth or sixth day— they had lost count— the setting Sol kindled the haze that enveloped them, like the glowing coals of some vast pyre.
“There!” Veorn shouted, his figure just ahead but unseen. “Dost thou behold it?”
“I see naught but golden glow,” Gedain answered.
“Follow me!”
Veorn’s footfalls faded as the party pressed forward into the gilded haze. The path had nearly vanished beneath them, finally ending, and the mist fell away. Before them, a stone arch framing a corridor of shadows, choked with root and vine. Veorn was gone, neither heard nor seen.
“We go no further, my lord.”
Gedain cast a hardened glare but then softened.
“Abide with the horses, then. If I have not returned by tomorrow’s sunset, leave mine and return to Gruen by way of the High Gate.”
“Listen!” said one. “The drums return.”
“We are lost,” said another, “and may not find the way back.”
“Let you fears be your guide,” Gedain replied.
He dismounted, took the lantern fastened at his saddle and struck flame. And with it in one hand and his sword in the other, he approached the entrance. He hacked and swept away the verdure, then crossed the threshold and was swallowed by the darkness.
Guided by his lantern, Gedain crawled over fallen stones and roots, hearing the echoes of dripping water. Forward he crept, the grey light of the entrance receding behind, down an ancient hewn stair, roots strangling the steps, air guttering his light while humming like a long exhale through the narrow chamber.
A faint blue glow bloomed upon the cavern walls ahead. Then daylight appeared, and Gedain passed through to the other side, into a wild oasis.
Many silent, suspicious faces greeted him there, emerging from the brambles and shadows, men and women alike, clad in hides and furs, each with readied steel or bow. Gedain gazed upward. The skies had parted above with the clouds deepening in the hues of sunset flame. Above, all around, the dense black forest rose, and beyond that, spires of jagged stone thrust heavenward. Gedain felt then that he stood within the very lair of the dragon of his dreams.
He lowered his gaze. Ahead stood a man in a coarse Norland tunic. Gedain approached slowly, knowing his name, yet not his eyes that seemed to be those of another— a more ruthless, silent version… reborn.
Menek.
“What is this place?” Gedain asked.
“The source of truth,” Menek answered.
Gedain sheathed his sword and set down his lantern as the wild folk closed in around him.
“Art thou their leader?”
“No. They brought me hither a fortnight past,” Menek said. “Even as thou wast led.”
“Who then ruleth here?”
“He who is the king.”
Gedain searched the eyes of the wild folk gathered around him. They stared without emotion, as if looking straight through his flesh and bone and directly into his soul.
“Will this king receive me?” Gedain asked.
“Rest,” Menek answered. “He will come for thee soon.”
Vale
Gedain took his rest beside the warmth of a pyre ringed in stones, with its bright tongues of flame dancing up into the wheeling stars. Surrounded by wild folk, their suspicious glares never leaving, weariness nevertheless overtook him and he drifted off into sleep.
He found himself upon a vast and open field, beneath a heavy sky, where many thousands laid slain or mortally wounded, their twisted forms strewn and piled unto the horizons on either hand. It was a place unvisited by him, yet he somehow knew it lay within the steppes of Vellund. He stood alone, sword unsheathed and clotted with blood, horse fallen, lying near. The scent of smoke and filth arose with the sound of wind carrying the groans of the dying strewn upon the plain of pooling blood and mud.
Gedain panned, gazing in horror at the numbers beyond any reckoning. Yet despair did not take hold, but rather there was relief that the Archons[i] of The One had spared him, choosing that he alone still breathed life. As he turned to view the wasteland, a presence emerged from the smoke becoming a visage appearing before him, clad in a golden armor the likes of which he had never seen by forge of man. Tall and slender, its helm bore the likeness of a ram concealing its face. Above, the grim clouds parted, and a halo of Sol’s rays beamed through causing the golden plate to gleam so that Gedain shielded his eyes. Fearful, he fell to his knees. The glorious figure approached and reached forth with shimmering crown of diamond and set it upon Gedain’s brow.
He woke to darkness.
He found the pyre had burned down into glowing coals and the air was but cold shadow. He closed his eyes to fall back asleep but a voice interrupted the hush of deep night.
“You were dreaming,” it said.
Gedain saw the form of a man seated quietly in the shadows beside him. He drew himself up. “Aye, I was,” Gedain answered.
“Was thy dream of the dragon or of the archon?”
“It was of a golden sovereign. Yet it was more like a ghost or a spirit than flesh. It beamed like the fires of Sol at midday, blinding me.”
“Aye,” the voice affirmed from the shadows. “Bafomet hath come to thee in thy dreams. Thou hast been summoned.”
“Bafomet?” Gedain scoffed. “Bafomet is but a legend. A myth to spur False Men by fear.”
The voice lowered. “Oh, I assure thee Bafomet is no myth. I can attest by mine own eyes; the golden archon is yet living flesh, indeed.”
Gedain scoffed. “Bafomet is long dead, many centuries.”
“Aye, yet thou knowest well that the Neandilim are long-lived. Bafomet was with your sage Kethu when they crossed from Vallis, and Kethu yet draws breath. Does he not?”
“He is frail,” Gedain said, uncertain if wake or dream still held him. “He may have passed already for all I know.”
“Kethu is not nurtured by the dragon’s spirit.”
“Who art thou?” Gedain asked.
The voice in the darkness laughed. “What profit is there in who I say I am?”
“Art thou chieftain of these folk?”
“These are thy folk, Gedain. Norlanders all. Tribesmen and bandits and nomads, most from beyond the River Lunde. Some come even from Moorwater Plain and the frozen skirts of Ankenlund. While Methundor’s lords gnaw over boundary stones, these gather here to bleed and fight, to slay the invader ere they come north.”
“If thou beest not their thegn, then who commandeth them?”
He nodded. “Aye, they follow my command, yet I am not their thegn.” He rose. “Come, follow me.”
He took up his torch and led Gedain away from the glow of the dying fire. They followed a rocky footpath into the woods, then upwards, the trail turning back on itself as it climbed a sheer wall of stone. For near an hour they laboured on, until the skies paled in the east with the coming dawn. At last, they reached a high precipice, and the view unfurled before them beneath the newborn light.
The guide was revealed to Gedain in the growing light. He wore no beard. His long locks were the deepest of mahogany red. His eyes were as dark as wet earth, yet about the pupil they wert amber and blue, like Sol within a clear sky. His brow was heavy, yet youth clung to his face, though hardened by trials unspoken. When he spoke, his voice was stern, yet calm and measured, without any affectation.
“Seest thou those mountain spires,” he said, pointing, Sol glinting off the gold ring on his index finger, its red garnet glowing like a fanned ember. “There, those points of black stone?”
Gedain answered, “That must be Edam of Meru?”
“Aye, yet thou hast never seen it?”
“I have not.”
“All men know it by its grandeur at first sight,” he replied, quenching his torch in the dirt. “Look down toward the base, left, where the stream coils. Tell me, what seest thou?”
“I see stone ruins— high columns, arches, curls of smoke… an encampment,” Gedain answered. “And banners! The colors look Neandilim.”
“Aye. They are far off. Your sight is keen.”
“It is but a small host. Why have they come so few in number? It seems insufficient for an invasion.”
“That is no invasion host. That is an expedition. They guard the road from the High Gate, awaiting Norland’s host. The way is narrow. It takes but a few— a thousand men, perhaps— to stop ten thousand. Thus, we have come to foil their design, so that your host might pass through unhindered.” He paused. “Yet they are here for more than just an ambush. Bafomet is among them.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Go and see for yourself.” He grinned.
“Why else would they come, then?”
“They wait for one man to come.”
“For whom?”
He answered, “One who would be made the Norland King.”
Gedain studied the distant camp. “They search for you, then?”
His voice darkened. “They search for the one who wills to be made. I have no will to be made by anyone.”
Gedain pondered. “They believe this man will ride down there, into their camp, and present himself? Do they expect a fool?”
“It is already known that he will come.”
“Perhaps this fool, riding down there, believing he would be crowned, would then find himself flayed on a rack.”
He smiled thinly. “I am hungry. Let us return to the vale.”
Below, the Norland men shared game and water with Gedain. His guide soon took his leave. Then Menek appeared at his side.
“I must inform you that I shall not return with thee to Gruen,” Menek said.
“Oh?” Gedain responded, hardly feigning surprise. “I see no means by which I might compel thee.”
“My duty is here, now. I have been made the marshal of these men.” Menek continued. “I swear I will not speak against thee for thy part in Cerenid’s undoing.” He went on. “Thou wouldst deny it, anyway, and none would heed my word, regardless.”
“Aye, I would deny it. And they would not heed thee,” Gedain affirmed.
When they had finished, Menek led Gedain back to the cavern mouth where he had entered the vale. “Return to thy riders before they abandon you,” Menek said. “Tell the boy rex that Bafomet hath claimed me. Or tell him aught else, it matters not. Yet do assure him that the High Gate road shall be cleared for his host.”
“I will.”
“Farewell, Gedain.”
Gedain started off but turned. “Tell me, who is the man thou followest?”
Menek grinned, then his voice lowered. “That, my fool, is the Wolvenking. Eleom is his name, son of Cleon Rex and Amarah the Aeonite. And if thou wouldst speak truth, then carry this to Gruen, and to thy boy rex, and unto Kethu if he yet breathes, and to every trembling, fickle lord: If they would live— if they would shatter Bafomet’s host ere it bringeth ruin to their race— that they should come and bend the knee here to Eleom, the one true Norland King.”
Prophet
The spring morning broke bright and clear. The deep blue vault of heaven lay brushed with billowings of the purest white. The streams and rivers swelled with the melting mountain snows. Dandelions burned gold across the pastures, feeding the bees and hummingbirds. Everywhere the air was fresh and sweet, and the land shone green, as though the world itself had drawn a fresh breath.
Upon one such morn, a ragged man appeared, strolling through Gruen’s gate. The folk drew aside, uneased, for he was not clad in any peasant tunic nor craftsman’s coat, but a pelt of thick fur from some uncommon beast, rough and weathered by long years. In his hand he bore a polished staff, fashioned from a long white bone. His hide sandals were crudely fashioned, knotted and tied with sinew. His face was neither old nor young, his long beard and hair the color of damp bark. His eyes were dark, fiery yet not menacing. His hair and skin and face were clean and clear, and his flesh bore no ink of crime or oath.
He passed without haste into the heart of the city and seated himself beside the fountain to rest. And rumour leapt from tongue to tongue like fire in dry grass. Men and women gathered round, then children, then the old, till the plaza filled with bodies and whispers, all come to behold the strange sojourner with their own eyes.
“Who art thou?” voices cried.
He sat in calm, asking only, “Might one of ye share your water?”
A woman stepped forth and offered her costrel and he drank long and deeply. “I pray thou art not some wizard come to bind us with spells?” she said as he drank.
He inclined his head in thanks and returned the vessel. Then rose, and the murmur died away. “Who art thou?” they asked again.
The ragged man scanned their eyes, and each one he looked upon felt as though he peered directly into their souls, and they were discomforted. “Name thyself!”
Sol shone full. The birds gathered still upon the high eaves. A cool breath of air passed through the plaza. Utter silence took hold again as the stranger drew a breath before speaking. “I am called Azarius,” He said at last, “…and many other names besides.”
A thunder of voices rolled through the crowd. Some gestured. Some scoffed. Some prayed. One cried out, “He is a southern spy!” Then another shouted, “Seize Him!”
Yet no hand dared to rise against Him.
“I have come a long road to speak with Kethu the Aeonite. Wouldst thou lead me to him?”
A young girl approached and again the crowd fell silent. “If thou beest Azarius,” she asked, “where art thine antlers? My father sayeth Azarius is a faun of the forest.”
Azarius bowed his head before her. “Thou can seest I have none. I am but a man, not unlike your father.”
She reached out and felt His head, then the fur of His garment. “What hide is this? It is strange.”
“It is cut from the hide of a mastodon.”
“Didst thou slay it?”
“No, little one. I found it long after it had passed. Though its remains were yet a banquet for many birds and wolves, and I had to wait my turn.”
She touched the staff. “And this?”
“I fashioned this from that same beast’s bone.”
“It is also strange.”
“Aye,” He answered softly. “Yet strange things often serve one well.”
Her father pulled her back. “Prove thou art the Immortal Prophet! Cast thyself from the wall and rise again!”
“I may not murder myself,” Azarius replied. “That is forbidden. Yet any among you who must see me rise with thine own eyes may step forth to slay me and then bear witness.”
But no man dared.
Then a warden pressed through the crowd. “Who dost thou claim to be?”
“I said I am Azarius. I have come to speak with Kethu.”
“Come with me,” he ordered. “Make way for us!”
He was led through the plaza and down the cobbled way to the sept, followed by craftsmen, wives, children, and others curious. Word ran ahead of them, and more gathered at their doors and street corners to glimpse the man in hides who named himself immortal.
At last, they arrived at the sept and entered through its tall oaken doors. Azarius was left to stand before the altar, before the high priestess came. “They tell me thou sayest thou art Azarius,” the priestess said. “How can we know this true?”
“Though my word should suffice,” He answered, “there is but one way to know for certain.”
“Resurrection.”
“Aye.”
“And what manner of death dost thou prefer?”
“One that is swift, for though I am immortal, I yet feel pain. And I would keep my body whole, that my remaking be not long delayed.”
“Poison, then?”
“So be it,” He answered. “Then place my body upon the earth so that The One’s life may renew.
No Hemlock could be found and thus they chose drowning. They led Azarius to the courtyard where a large trough for watering horses had been filled.
“There,” said the priestess, “shall that basin serve?”
“Aye. It will suffice,” He answered, as if measuring a horse. “Yet two men must hold me under, for though my spirit is willing, my flesh will resist.”
Two wardens led Azarius to the basin where He removed His hide and stepped into the water to lay Himself beneath its surface. And with a nod of the priestess, the constables held Him under.
A minute passed. His body tensed. Then thrashed. The constables held His limbs while His body strained. His chest heaved and legs kicked, splashing and spilling. Finally, the struggling ceased and the water stilled. They held Him longer, yet He stirred not. Though his eyes were open, His face appeared at peace, and no hint of terror gleamed in His lifeless eyes.
At last, they pulled Him out and carried the body to the sept where it was dried and laid in a corner of the stone floor with His staff and hide cloak. A sentry was posted, and the body was guarded for three days. But no breath of life returned. “It is a fraud,” deemed the priestess at last. “A vagrant seeking a famed death.”
The clouds gathered that morning, and the body was taken from the sept and carted in a small wagon beneath the gloom and drizzle. None gathered for the procession, save for the little girl, for the spectacle was deemed a hoax. Yet her face filled with sadness as the laborers pulled the small wagon through the gate, headed for the burial-field.
The body was laid in a shallow pit. His hands were crossed upon His chest. His bone staff laid at His side. A copper coin was placed over each eye. The drizzle thickened. Distant thunder rumbled. Prayers were muttered by the gravediggers.
Yet just as the laborers were set to pile the dirt and stones, they noticed a stirring in the mud. Then all manner of crawling and slithering of small creatures and roots emerged in the hole. They stared in wonder as the worms and tendrils enveloped and encased the body.
One dropped his shovel and fled to the gate. “Come! Follow me!” he shouted as he neared the wall. “Something is happening. Come!”
Upon hearing this, the reeve and several peasants hastened for the grave. The drizzle had ceased, and the clouds had parted with Sol’s rays shining down on the barrows. The two laborers stood with mouths agape and eyes filled with astonishment. At their feet, a living hand emerged from the pit. And then the other. Terror and wonder seized them all as the face of Azarius, masked in mud and worms and roots, arose from the earth. They watched, frozen in fear as the Immortal pulled himself out of the pit and stood before them, wiping away the worms and roots and mud from His skin.
He gave one copper coin to each laborer who had placed His body in the hole. Then he spoke, “Does anyone have any water? I thirst.”
Deliverance
“Dost mine eyes behold the revenant?” Cerenid asked, gazing down at Azarius from the dais. The Immortal had been bathed and vested in simple crimson robes. The light through the high glass beamed down upon Him, alighting His visage. Cerenid’s crown slipped askew on his brow as he leaned forward to examine the prophet. He set it straight on his head.
“Aye, my Lord,” Azarius answered. “I have been called revenant before.”
“Hast thou come to save us?”
“Nay,” Azarius answered, shaking his head. “I cannot save men from themselves. I come only as a beacon of hope, to be seen… not to compel; to offer my counsel if it be sought or if it be needed.”
“And what would be thy counsel?”
Azarius turned then to those gathered in the hall— reiks and wardens, priests and captains— and his gaze seemed to linger upon each in turn, as though weighing the hidden burden each carried. Some met his eyes, hungry for reassurance. Others looked away, fearing the weight of what they thought he knew.
Turning back to Cerenid He answered, “My council would be this: that the rex muster the Norland host. For the Beast is vulnerable this day, yet by winter’s coming it shall be unassailable, for the High Gate will be barred by snow.”
The high priestess stepped forward, her voice measured but trembling. “The revenant hath been foretold. The hour appointed is now upon us.”
Cerenid continued. “You say you come as a beacon of hope, yet thy counsel is war. Tell me, what hope is there in marching south and leaving our walls and roads undefended?”
“To march means defeat is not certain. Hope in triumph would endure. A rex who seeketh only peace shall inherit only ashes. Thou art not judged by whether thou lovest war, but by whether thou fleest the duty laid before thee. But that is not the only hope of which I truly wish to speak, my lord.”
“Then of what hope do you wish to speak?”
“I speak not to the flesh of men, but to their spirit,” said Azarius, his voice carrying to the highest arches and returning in solemn echo. “All who have ears, let them hear: This life is but a breath drawn and released. A heartbeat, and then it is done.” He paused again to draw the ear of those assembled. “Therefore, despair not at life’s trials or even its ending; for whether thy end be given by sword, or illness, or by long withering, thy spirit abideth still eternal. Some would say, ‘she lived long, many years’, and of others, ‘he died so young, a life cut short’. Yet a long life or a short life is but the measure of the flesh. To thy spirit, which is eternal, no life is measured longer or shorter… for they are all brief. So, fear thee not that which must come for all, for it cometh to all alike— king and serf, priest and bandit. And when thy brief span is spent, thou shalt pass onward, where thy honor shall be weighed and thy reward made known in the life that followeth. Of the eternity of the spirit, I am all the proof thy mortal eyes demand.
“My rex, thy reiks behold this looming strife as a foul curse, a peril to be evaded, a fate to be bargained with. Aye, all good reiks will measure the cost in lives and in the grief o’er loved ones lost. Yet I sayeth unto all who will hear, that that which is eternal cannot be slain by blade or stone. That wounds are indeed the peril of the flesh, yet the flesh is here today and gone tomorrow, nevertheless. Yet as there be wounds that imperil the flesh, so too be there wounds that imperil the soul. To flee from the honour of duty becometh wounds of the soul that fester.
“Thou seest the pure petals of the lovely gillyflower, growing wild on the hill in uncounted numbers. And yet, when one picketh one ere morning, it wilteth by dusk. Such is the nature of mortal life. And though thou might find gillyflowers loveliest of all florae, wouldst thou trade even the dullest pearl for the fairest gillyflower once plucked?
“To all the reiks who fear the call to arms I say: take heed that thou callest not fear by the name of mercy. Though a blade might spill thy blood, a flight from honour wounds thy soul. Fear not defeat in battle, for victory is not thy charge. Thy charge is honour. Regard not this coming peril as a curse, but as a gift— the gift of duty, by which a soul is proven.”
A long silence settled upon the hall, thick as fog. Cerenid shifted upon his seat, the crown weighing upon his brow as he pondered. Then his countenance seemed to brighten, as if his soul had released a great burden. At length, the rex gave voice to his new resolve. “Bring Kethu. And send forth the wardens to summon the council of reiks.”
Azarius inclined his head. “When the reiks and thegns are assembled, my lord, I would address them— if thou wilt permit it.”
Azarius was led to the gardens and bid to wait. There, he listened to the fountain murmurs and breathed the sweetness of the spring flowers newly come into bloom. He waited, almost reposed, bathed in the warm Sol light filtered through the budding leaves. After an hour, two men at last appeared bearing Kethu in a chair. They set him down beside Azarius next to the fountain. Kethu sat slumped, his body nearly wasted. His hair was gone save for wisps of white; his beard patchy and thin. His hands were bent and twisted like the roots of ancient trees, and his skin clung spotted and thin.
“Kethu, canst thou hear me?” Azarius asked.
“Yes,” came the answer, a groan more than a word.
“Knowest thou who I am?”
Kethu stirred faintly.
“It is I, Azarius.”
Kethu strained and pulled his head up. When at last his cloudy eyes opened, they gleamed with recognition, welling as he spoke. “Thou hast returned.”
“As I promised.”
Kethu let out a slow breath. “I am ready, then.”
“I know thou art, my friend.”
Kethu’s brow trembled. “I yet grieve,” he said. “All these centuries… I grieve still.”
“Tomorrow thou shalt grieve no more.”
“I have never ceased despair for Vesther since her passing. And for Arcian, whom I failed as father.”
“Despair not,” said Azarius. “Thou servedst them better than any man could. And thou shalt meet thy beloved again in the next life. By thy honour and theirs, thy new life shall be lived in an age unstained by the suffering endured in this one.”
“My son,” Kethu said, his voice breaking. “He bore the weight of my sin.”
“Thou didst not fail him,” Azarius answered. “And thou shalt yet be his father, and he shall be thy son once again. Thou shalt see him grow to manhood beneath gentler skies.”
Kethu wept in the broken, straining way of old men. “But I betrayed my king,” Kethu lamented, “my brother. For that dishonour, I cannot be redeemed.”
“Thine alms have been given, my friend. Thy debt hath been repaid. Thy spirit stands redeemed before The One.”
“Forgive me,” Kethu cried. “Forgive me, Aeon.”
“Your king and brother forgave thee long ago,” Azarius replied. “And thou shalt meet him again in a city of crystal and silver, where the red Sol riseth over quiet seas. Together, ye shall watch the alloy ships glide in graceful peace. And thou shalt know that Aeon hath forgiven thee.”
Kethu breathed shakily. “Will there be pain… when I pass?”
“No,” said Azarius. “Thou shalt sleep, and dream of a great thirst. And with many others, both friend and foe in life, though no more strife come between ye, thou shalt come upon the River Thol and thy thirst shall be quenched.” Azarius then turned his gaze upon the garden. “Doth this splendid place not call Vallis to mind?”
“Aye,” Kethu smiled. “Yet only as a candle calls a great pyre to memory. I can see Mount Meru, now, in the distance, and the wyvern circling above in the golden sky.”
“What else, my friend?”
“I see Mosul leading a great legion of men, and my father, too. He beckons me. I am just a boy, again.” Kethu’s eyes glazed in memory. “The slow turning Sol moving west to east.”
“Aye,” Azarius affirmed. “A day there like unto a year here.”
“Oh, and the trees. The mighty trees. As tall as mountains on Edä.”
“Their majesty far beyond the grasp of Norland sons.”
At this, Kethu’s countenance dimmed, and his frail voice sank low. “And the dragon. And the Nephilim. No Norland man would credit such things, though I swore them true.”
Azarius darkened. “Soon shall they behold them with their own eyes, my friend.”
“Tell me,” Kethu asked at last, “is Vallis lost forever?”
“No,” Azarius replied. “For it is writ: all that is ruined shall be remade.”
Thus, they sat together in the garden until Sol had fully set, and the saffron twilight yielded to night. Thereafter, two men bore Kethu unto his chamber and laid him alone upon his bed, leaving beside him a single candle, which burned low, guttered, and at last was quenched in the deep hush of night.
Further
Gedain emerged from the cavern into a thickened morning mist. He called out to his riders, and they soon stumbled forth from the fog one by one. “You live!” said one, relieved. “What didst thou find, my lord?”
“Nothing,” Gedain answered, yet his gaze shifted from their eyes as he spoke. Perceiving their doubt he added, “I lost my way in the darkness, and found it again by morning’s light.”
The riders exchanged glances, looking unconvinced, yet none pressed him further. “What shall we do?” asked another. “The mist confounds our bearing.”
“Where is the faun?” Gedain demanded.
“We have not seen him since last night. He hath abandoned us.”
“Nay,” Gedain snapped. “He is near. He watches just beyond, veiled by the fog.” He lifted his voice into the drizzle and haze. “Come forth, faun. Guide us!”
For a breath there was naught but mist. Then a darker shape stirred within it: first the pale curve of horns like unto a ram’s, then the full outline of the creature, seeming to congeal from vapor as a specter drawn into flesh.
“Ahh, there he is,” Gedain remarked. “Lead us.”
“Unto where, my lord?” Veorn answered. “Unto what?”
The men looked to Gedain with hopefulness that he would seek to turn back. “Thou knowest that which I seek.”
The eyes of the riders fell as Veorn’s mouth curled into a sinister grin. “Aye, then. Follow me.”
They mounted and rode single file, descending with the narrow trail. Veorn ever before them, went far enough ahead that his form wavered upon the brink of vanishing into the haze. They rode thus through the day, and the mist did not lift. Then, as the light began to wane, they again heard the distant drums. “Where dost thou lead us, my lord,” a rider ventured, but Gedain gave no answer.
Ever downward they pressed, the drumbeats growing louder as the skies darkened. “Shall we turn back now, my lord,” another asked, fear cracking his voice.
Gedain reined his horse, and again, hopefulness stirred in the rider’s hearts. Yet he did not answer but instead he took hold the hilt and drew his sword a hands breadth from the scabbard, fixing his glare upon the last rider to voice his cowardice.
Veorn returned to them, as Gedain made his threat, and took the lantern from his saddle and struck it alight. Without a word, he turned and advanced ahead into the darkening fog.
None of the riders dared to speak again. They rode into a night without Luna or starlight to guide them, led only by Veorn’s amber lantern glow on the dark trail ahead. The drums pounded, no longer distant but thumping within the chest, as though their own hearts beat in answer. They rode on to the grim rhythm, with only the hoofbeats and panting of their horses to accompany the rudiment of oblivion.
Veorn’s faint light then disappeared entirely. Rustling filled the darkness. Then strange whispers in unknown tongues. Gedain halted the troop to listen. Unseen footfalls crossed the path behind. Their steel rasped free of leather as they drew their swords…
One rider cried out and fell from his mount. The other horses reared and screamed. Gedain’s eyes, blinded by dark, caught a glimpse of a figure sweeping past the lantern glow— there but for a moment, then gone. He lunged, his blade biting naught but shadow.
Footfalls rustled to their sides. Another rider fell, groaning once, then silent. “Where are ye?” Gedain shouted in futility.
The drums thundered, vast and merciless. A rider wheeled to flee uphill, yet he was unhorsed a moment later, falling silent, lifeless. “Stand! Fight with honor!” Gedain roared.
A shape rushed past him, He struck and missed, his face left burning, hot with blood. His eye blinded. “Veorn!” he called. “Where have ye led us?” No reply came. He spurred his horse forward through the chaos, down the path, hurling blind through the night. For perhaps a furlong he rode, galloping, heedless of stone or root. He slowed. The sound of drums had stilled and the night was as silent as a tomb. He felt his face. The right cheek badly gashed and oozing. His right eye seeing naught, unbearable to open it.
He dismounted and slipped into the ferns and bramble, crouching low, holding his face, willing his breath to stillness lest it reveal him. Shivers seized him with the damp cold gnawing to his bone. He pressed a corner of his cape into his wound. He waited long, daring not to stir or flinch, counting neither moments nor hours until at last the darkness thinned and the sky paled in the east.
With dawn came the lifting of the fog. As the daylight took hold, Gedain found himself in a tangle of saplings and moss and pine needles. He waited still, listening, holding the cape to his face. Nothing. When he deemed the light strengthened enough, he rose partway to claim his horse which was yet standing on the trail. But he heard hoofbeats and so sank back into the blind, sword bare in his right hand, left hand still pressing his maimed face and blinded eye. His view obscured, he saw only hooves halting upon the trail, then boots on the path.
“My lord,” whispered a voice. “Art thou in there?”
Gedain crawled out of the bramble.
“Where be the others?” he asked, sheathing his sword shile holding his wound.
“All slain,” the young rider answered, voice hollow. “They lie back upon the path. I fled when I could.” He looked at Gedain with horror in his eyes as Gedain pulled his hand from his cheek. “Thine eye, sir…” Paying no heed, Gedain swung himself into his saddle. “Do we ride back then, sire?” the young rider asked.
Gedain paused to study the rider’s youthful face: the wide eyes— too wide for battle— the narrow shoulders, the beard no more than tawny fleece upon his chin. “I have forgotten thy name,” Gedain said.
“It is Elden, sire. Elden of—”
“Ride home to your mother, Elden,” Gedain cut in. “This is no road for boys.”
Elden swallowed. “I would rather ride with thee, sire.”
Gedain turned his horse toward the descent. “So be it.” Gedain looked ahead, down the trail where Veorn had appeared, then beckoning. Gedain inhaled a deep breath. “Canst thou smell the rot, boy? The end of the road is nigh at hand.”
Terminus
Further, deeper the faun led them. The forest road levelled. The great pines bent their branches over the path like twisted arches of a fallen nave, until the daylight was but shafts of light that broke through the lattice of bough and needle. For hours, none spoke a word, and even the horses tread softly. Finally, Veorn bid them to halt. “I may lead thee no further.”
Before them, they found the full light of day, as if their path lead unto the opening of a dark cavern tunnel. Gedain turned to look once more for the faun, but Veorn had vanished as if mist before Sol. With no word exchanged, Gedain set his heels and rode forward, and Elden followed.
The road emerged onto a broad field of wildflowers and poppies, climbing a swell ahead. Upon the hill’s crown, stood the silhouette of a warrior. “Raise thy hands,” Gedain called to Elden. Elden complied.
They approached with trepidation, their pace measured and slow. As they neared, the silhouette resolved before their eyes: a sentry, armed with a curved blade such as Gedain recalled only from the old Aeonite frescoes and descriptions of Vallis wars whispered on rainy nights by his grandfather when he was a boy.
Sol shown bright above, yet the air was cool, the breeze faint. Beyond the sentry, a mystery lurked still. The air carried the scent of the poppies and also a deeply foul rot. The sentry drew his blade as they neared. Beyond him, the hill rose further, and there, flanking the road hung the figures of men dead for days, stripped and suspended, grey, bloated forms, bound to wooden frames on either side of the road.
Gedain and Elden reined before the guard. His mail and breastplate bore a dull golden sheen. His cape as black as moonless night. His helm was wrought in the likeness of a dragon, melded to the form of its wearer’s human skull. He spoke no word but bid them onward. They rode into the gauntlet of the dead, brushing close, eyes and oozing wounds pecked away at by the black corvids that croaked and flapped as they rode by.
They climbed the road through the gauntlet towards the crest. Closing upon it, what lay beyond yet obscured, they reined their nervous steeds to a slow, careful tread. Past the hanging dead, their odorous reek clinging to their every breath. Farther. Further. The wildflowers everywhere bursting with colors: pearl and rose. Gold and crimson. Azure and flame. Sol shining bright above, scalding their eyes.
Then the beyond at last revealed itself: the tops of broken columns of towering stone, the remains of flying buttress and grand arch, too elegant, too lofty, too noble to be crafted by the minds and chisels and hammers of any Norland men. They halted at the crest. Below them spread a deep vale, and within it the ruin was laid bare in full: once a mighty temple, now overgrown with softwoods and brambles, encircled by ordered ranks of tents— near on a thousand by best guess.
“The Neandilim host, my lord!” Elden whispered.
“A millenary, perhaps,” Gedain answered. He spurred down the slope, right hand raised, Elden following. At the base they were encircled by a score of warriors in brass and black capes, speaking in strange southern tongue. They closed in upon them and unhorsed them and removed their weapons. Elden was set apart and held.
Gedain was taken onward, the pathway leading through the ruin’s foundations, past grand faces carved in stone, overgrown with crawler vines and roots, past inscriptions etched in archaic and exotic sigils. He gazed up. The columns soared into the heavens, joined by delicate arches near a hundred cubits above.
Through a living trellis of thorn and leaf, he was led at last into a small court enclosed by walls of flowering bramble. A stone fountain murmured at its heart, Sol’s rays shimmering off the pool. Beside it sat a slight figure clad in plain black robes, facing away. It held a type of lute with a long, fretted neck. The fingers struck the strings and dizzying tones filled Gedain’s ear. He could not discern if the figure was a man or a woman. The playing ceased and the figure turned, the face concealed by a plain, golden mask. Their glance met. The sentries forced Gedain down onto his knees. The figure remained still, examining Gedain as he lowered his gaze.
“Thine eye,” it said. “It appeareth lost.”
Gedain felt it with his fingertips. It had become badly swollen and crusted with scabs of dried blood.
“I do not know for certain… perhaps.”
:Hast thou come to be made?” asked the figure, its smooth, almost gentle voice disarming him.
“Made, my lord?” Gedain asked, raising his swollen, blackened face.
The figure turned a peg on the long neck of the lute. “Thy wound,” it said, “It was not my intent that thou be injured. The one who erred hath been punished.”
Gedain nodded.
“There were two paths set before thee,” it continued softly, “and thou hast chosen.”
“Would any man have chosen the other?” Gedain asked.
“The choice was not given to any man.” The figure plucked the drone strings and the tone seemed to give voice to the sunlight rippling on the pool. “What didst thou expect to find here?”
Gedain pondered, finding no answer.
“Let me ask thee: dost thou believe in good and evil, Gedain?”
Beyond the fountain, he noticed something dark, scaled, slithering in the shadow… or perhaps it was just a trick of the light and air.
“I…” he paused for a moment. “I suppose one man’s good is another man’s evil,” he answered. “How dost thou know my name?”
“Thou must knowest this: that all men are savages by their nature.”
Gedain’s gaze lowered as though he was examining himself.
“You agree, then, that a man’s tribe is righteous unto him alone, and that his survival demandeth he must be ready to name all other tribes unrighteous?”
Gedain gave no reply. The fountain rippled. His face throbbed with pain. The figure tilted his gaze upwards.
“Dost thou know who built this temple?”
Gedain thought, eyes still lowered. “The Gargan, I presume.”
“Why dost thou presume that?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps because men lack such craft.”
“Men name them Gargan as children name the ghosts that haunt them. Did Gargan build these or was that a myth told by modern men who gazed upon these magnificent things and sought to soothe the shame of their own crudeness.” It turned as it viewed the high arches above. “No, it was not mythic hands, it was the Thalan[ii]. Wast thou taught of the Thalan… Gedain?”
“Little, my lord.”
“They wert a noble caste of Edä’s men. Yet their flock was culled and scattered by the Great Purgation[iii].”
Gedain’s eye was drawn to the undulating shadows as he listened.
“Thou hast no Thalan in thy blood by the fair look of you.”
He recalled the legends.
“Thou art Hedam through and through. Brutes, yet they were the survivors. Nomads. Scavengers. All the Thalan knowledge was lost to men, turned to dust by wind and ice.” It strummed the lute and the fountain shimmered in response. “Dost thou know why I come for the Norlands?”
Gedain’s gaze rose, returning to the golden mask. “Art thou Bafomet?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“We are unwelcomed in this realm.”
“Ye shall never be welcomed by the Edäm,” Gedain said.
“We agree. Therefore, we must always contend for survival, lest we permit ourselves to be exterminated… like the Thalan.”
“What dost though want with the Norlands,” Gedain demanded. “There is nothing there but forest and flocks. The men are dumb-witted.”
Bafomet’s voice lowered. “We cannot leave you be. There is no stillness among tribes of men. All art either flourishing or decaying. Edä’s men come for us, today, or tomorrow, yet come they will… if we grant thee peace. My tribe is an ancient one. We learned on Vallis that conquest was a matter of survival. To yield… to halt meant to surrender unto death.”
“This is not Vallis.”
“But it is, my prince.” Bafomet replied. “It is Vallis for us.” Bafomet gestured upwards again, unto the towering columns and arches. “Behold these works. These are the expression of exalted man. Such as these shall rise again… through me.”
Bafomet plucked several bars on the lute. Gedain sat listening. At length he drew breath to speak, but Bafomet forestalled him.
“The Norlands hold much of worth— gold, iron, pasture, fertile women. Yet thy lives and wealth are squandered. What is thy art beyond coarse tapestries and whirling dancers? What is thy craft beyond crude walls and hovels? What be the pinnacle of thy music beyond the crank-fiddle dirge? And yet, mark how far thy kin have come since the Aeonites bestowed their knowledge. Now imagine how much farther we might carry thy kind.”
“Why am I here?” Gedain asked. “To serve as thy messenger? To return and bid the Norland reiks and thegns to surrender to your benevolent design?”
“Nay,” said Bafomet calmly. “Thy kind would never bow to any Neandilim governor… not without a ruinous toll of gold and blood.”
“What am I to thee, then?”
“Thou wast chosen. We watched and weighed you many moons, years even. Thou art ruthless, yet vain; pragmatic, yet driven. In thee, charisma is wedded unto ambition. Thou art fit to be made.”
“To be made into what?”
The lute sounded once more. The pool burned with reflected Sol. The shadows stirred and slithered. “To be made the Norland King.”
“We have a rex,” Gedain replied, though reluctance edged his voice. “What dost thou gain by crowning me?”
“Thy rex is weak. He lacketh ambition. He cannot deliver. He cannot unite. Only thou canst deliver your tribe from ruin and set them onto a higher path.”
Gedain tried to remain void of expression, but his unruined eye betrayed him by widening. “How, then?”
“Deliver Cerenid and the other reiks unto me and thy sovereign path shall be cleared.”
Bafomet turned away toward the fountain to pluck fresh notes on the lute while the sentries raised Gedain to his feet. As he was lifted, he saw it within his mind— the crown upon his brow, the host kneeling, the wild men chanting his name— and the thought took hold of him like fever. And the voice in his mind said, If I must kneel today to raise us later, then so be it. And when I drive them out, I will be forever renowned as the one who saved the Norlands.
“What of the boy who rode with me?” He asked. “Shall he return with me?”
Bafomet answered without turning. “It is not needful that I decide his fate.”
Gedain said nothing more, weighing the boy’s fate as he was led away.
[i] Archons of The One are the intermediary gods, inhabiting the physical realm, and the forces of nature, and as voices within the minds of men.
[ii] The Thalan are the fourth named tribe from ‘Dawn of Edä’. “The Builders of Stone, who cleaved the mountains and laid the foundations of cities.”
[iii] The Great Purgation is the cataclysm of global cooling that destroyed nearly all of mankind on Edä. From ‘Dawn of Edä,’ the Holy Book of the Hedam, v 161-162: Then The One dimmed the light of Sol, and the azure skies of midday turned gray. The warmth withdrew, and the frost of death descended. The seas shrank from the shores, and the rivers were bound in ice. The mountains groaned beneath their burden, and silence reigned across the wilderness. Famine devoured the tribes of men, and violence sprang up among the starving multitudes. Some cried aloud, saying, “What God is this who afflicteth His children with such torment? Hath He not loved us?”