An unmoving sun over a land where time stands still. Embittered gods, clutching the last threads of power. A desperate search for mankind's only hope.
When disgraced master of antiquities Cyprian Fontaine is asked to join an expedition to find a relic that could save his collapsing civilization, he sees his chance at redemption. But the journey will not be an easy one.
The expedition must pass through the cratered remains of the old kingdom, baking beneath the eternally static sun, and into the squalid ruins of the fallen capital city, locked in perpetual night. From wind-scoured mountain peaks to wastelands of ash, they will face sadistic cannibals, nightmarish specters of the dead, and dissension in their own ranks, all to find the broken pieces of a divine blade that, once restored, will grant access to a realm beyond their decaying world.
But hoarding the shards of this blade are monstrous gods, the survivors of a cosmic war that left the world's creator dead and the natural order broken. And guiding them to these hidden deities is an enigmatic wanderer from the wastes, a badlander who promises to be Cyprian's salvation... or his downfall.
An unmoving sun over a land where time stands still. Embittered gods, clutching the last threads of power. A desperate search for mankind's only hope.
When disgraced master of antiquities Cyprian Fontaine is asked to join an expedition to find a relic that could save his collapsing civilization, he sees his chance at redemption. But the journey will not be an easy one.
The expedition must pass through the cratered remains of the old kingdom, baking beneath the eternally static sun, and into the squalid ruins of the fallen capital city, locked in perpetual night. From wind-scoured mountain peaks to wastelands of ash, they will face sadistic cannibals, nightmarish specters of the dead, and dissension in their own ranks, all to find the broken pieces of a divine blade that, once restored, will grant access to a realm beyond their decaying world.
But hoarding the shards of this blade are monstrous gods, the survivors of a cosmic war that left the world's creator dead and the natural order broken. And guiding them to these hidden deities is an enigmatic wanderer from the wastes, a badlander who promises to be Cyprian's salvation... or his downfall.
The view through the warped ancient glass of the tower window was just as it always was. Gray, pre-dawn light slid off beyond the walls of the last city and into the darkness of the west’s perpetual night.
Seated at his weathered wooden desk, Cyprian Fontaine gazed absentmindedly into the gloom. He slowly drummed his fingers on the rough edge of the desktop, across splintering wood as old as the drafty window. His eyes lingered on the horizon, and familiar thoughts began to coalesce.
He enjoyed the relative darkness of his quarters, so different from the Office of the Curator. That chamber, previously held by his father, his father’s father, and every Fontaine before that, leading all the way back to the re-founding of the city, was bathed in the constant dawn that kissed the eastern walls. It was too bright for him. Here, he could remain in dark, quiet privacy.
That privacy was soon interrupted by two short raps on the chamber door. Reluctantly, Cyprian turned from the window.
“Enter.”
The door creaked open and Cyprian’s assistant, white-haired and crooked, poked his head inside. Well-aware of Cyprian’s penchant for quiet, Jotun Berg tried to be respectful of Cyprian’s moods, even if he did find them tiresome at times.
“My lord,” Jotun said, “there’s a royal guardsman here to see you.”
Jotun raised his eyebrows quizzically, as if expecting an explanation as to what Cyprian could have done to catch the attention of a royal guardsman. Cyprian did not have an answer, and felt a small knot of apprehension move within him.
“That’s strange,” he responded. “Did they say what they wanted?
“I’m afraid not. I was kind of hoping that you would tell me. Should I be concerned?”
Cyprian bristled slightly at Jotun’s paternal tone—one that he’d heard many times throughout his life.
“I’m quite sure that you’ll be fine, at any rate. Send them up.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Jotun shut the heavy door behind him, and Cyprian turned back toward the window. A royal guardsman had no business with him. Unless, of course, they were just being used as a messenger by his esteemed master, the Curator of the Hall of Antiquities.
The thought intensified the knot in his guts. He was satisfied that Phir-Ramarian remained at the Vinecrown Keep, that the curator office he never should have been given, in all its sunlit brilliance, remained vacant. The less contact Cyprian had with his pompous cousin, the better. If he was sending some lackey to relay a message, it certainly would not be a good one.
Possible scenarios turned through Cyprian’s mind, finally interrupted by another series of knocks at the door, these ones rapid and harsh.
“Enter,” he said again, with some trepidation.
The door swung open and a man in a formal burgundy uniform strode confidently inside. Cyprian spied Jotun looking in apologetically through the doorway. Cyprian nodded at him, and Jotun quietly left the office, shutting the door behind him.
“Officer, please take a seat,” Cyprian said, motioning at the creaky wooden chair on the other side of his desk.
The guardsman looked at the chair with some derision. He brushed off the seat. “Captain,” he said as he swept his velvet cloak aside and sat down.
“I’m sorry?”
“My rank is captain. I do not fault you for being unaware of the meanings of my insignia, but I would also appreciate being titled properly. I expect that you understand that.” He paused for a moment. “My lord.”
Cyprian smiled humorlessly. “Of course, Captain …”
“Mather. Captain Gorlin Mather.”
“Of course, Captain Mather. Of what service can I be to the Crown?”
Mather leaned back in his chair and inhaled deeply through his nose. He folded his large hands on the rise of his belly and fixed his deep-set eyes on Cyprian. “I’ve been asked to personally escort you to an audience with the king. His Majesty has an important matter that he believes you to be an essential part of. Beyond that basic explanation, I can provide nothing further. He wants to speak with you now.”
Cyprian was shocked and flooded with dread. He had not had a personal meeting with his uncle since his father’s symbolic shepherding. Almost ten long-cycles had passed, and in the intervening time, he’d heard increasingly little from the king. His mother, who’d never recovered from his father’s disappearance, had remained as the last connection. When she passed, the king had not even attended her shepherding.
Cyprian’s only interaction with his esteemed relatives since had been with Phir-Ramarian. Now, suddenly, he was being summoned.
“I imagine that this is less of a request and more of a command?” Cyprian asked with resignation.
“That’s correct.” Without waiting for an answer, Mather stood up and motioned toward the door, never breaking eye contact with Cyprian.
Cyprian stared back at the impassive face. He rubbed a hand across his stubbled cheek and slowly stood up, scooting his chair in.
“Well, let’s go, then.”
●
The two men left the Hall of Antiquities together, with Cyprian feeling like Mather’s prisoner. As they passed through the main foyer, Cyprian had observed Jotun peering from a darkened doorway. Faye had been standing behind him, watching Cyprian pass, her eyes squinted in unease. He’d smiled weakly at his wife, hoping that it was some reassurance. Faye was well aware of the tension between Cyprian and his royal kin, and was clearly disturbed by his being summoned.
Stepping out into the permanent dawn, Cyprian was greeted by the familiar light of a sun that had been riveted above the eastern horizon since long before anyone alive was born. Mather led him sunward on the Mercantile Causeway, flanked on all sides by market stalls. The normal bustle of the street was unusually subdued. The most recent harvest had been a weaker one, and many of the stalls were shuttered.
A grimy-looking peddler seemed to consider approaching them but, after receiving a withering gaze from Mather, quickly moved on to a small group of shepherds. The shepherds, clearly disinterested, brushed past the man without uttering a word. Cyprian briefly wondered if they were on their way to a shepherding, or if they had recently dispatched a shade. Either way, he doubted that their grim business would allow much time for idle wandering through the market.
Two city guardsmen on patrol snapped off salutes to Mather as they walked by. Mather only nodded in return, his dark eyes fixed on the four massive spires of the Vinecrown Keep, which stretched above the squat and dull dwellings beyond the market. The heights reached by the spires of the keep were only rivaled by the tremendous size of the gabled roof between them.
Cyprian had to admire the architectural prowess of the old kingdom. The keep, even after many long-cycles of neglect, still mostly retained its original majesty. The vines that crawled up the walls had slowly started to wither, and the polished white gleam had become discolored with grime, but the elegance of the original structure was still very much intact. As with the Hall of Antiquities, the forgotten secrets of the old kingdom’s builders had produced a lasting legacy that outlived most of the practical, utilitarian structures built since.
They continued on, weaving their way through the narrow alleys that passed between the bland, stone homes of the lower classes. No doubt, they were traveling a shortcut that Mather’s experience as a guardsman had taught him. Cyprian attempted to engage Mather in conversation, but the stoic guardsman would not bite.
When they emerged back onto the main causeway, they had reached the encircling wall that protected the castle grounds. Mather, never breaking stride, led Cyprian to an arched gateway and two bored-looking royal guardsmen. They snapped to attention at Mather’s unexpected approach.
“Captain,” they said in unison, saluting.
Mather’s stony face betrayed just the slightest irritation at his subordinates being caught off guard. He waved them out of his way and they scurried to the gates, each pulling one open. As if chained to him, Cyprian followed the captain inside.
Like the castle itself, the beauty with which the grounds were sculpted was undeniable, if suffering from a lack of upkeep. Opulent fountains languished dryly; brown weeds sprang up through the cobblestone; an enormous marble statue of the city’s first sitting Vingallean monarch, Phan-Casmia, the Preserver, had partially sunk into the earth of the courtyard. At some point, the statue’s right hand, reaching toward the heavens, (and a glorious future, no doubt) had been broken off and lost. Still, despite the blemishes, Cyprian found himself enchanted by the architecture of the old world.
As the steward of the Hall of Antiquities, entrusted with the city’s treasury of precious artifacts, Cyprian had a keen eye for items of the past. In them, he could see what the world had been like before the war—an age when the Fontaine family had been the lords of the city, before they were relegated to being curators.
Now, even that title had been stripped away. Old resentment simmered within Cyprian’s veins.
They entered the darkness of the keep, passing through an ornate doorway and into the coolness of the foyer. Several nobles of the royal court milled about inside, their shadows cast on the stone walls by the flickering candlelight as they spoke in hushed tones, then laughed at a mumbled joke. Servants walked silently amongst them, refilling goblets.
Cyprian did not know what function these sycophants performed in a city where every person needed to fulfill a vital role. Somehow, thanks to their ancient lineage, they had secured themselves comfortable positions within the keep. He knew that his lineage had afforded him certain benefits as well, but still considered his own situation to be different. He was still driven by actual purpose, and had not slid into aristocratic obsolescence.
Mather seemed to pay the nobles no mind, and the two men continued up the grand staircase and into the massive throne room, which easily comprised the majority of the castle. The beams of the high ceiling were barely visible in the gloom. Four enormous hearths, one set on each wall, encircled the hall, the fires within smoldering sullenly. There was no one else in the room.
“Wait here. I’ll let His Majesty know that you’ve arrived,” Mather said in the direct tone of an order. Cyprian nodded his understanding and watched as Mather stalked away into the shadows on the far side of the room.
He stood in the spot where Mather had left him for only a moment. Being alone now, he began to circle the room slowly, gazing at the countless relics within.
Worn tapestries hung flaccidly from the walls, their images of past glories nearly faded away. Long rows of tables adorned with tarnished dinnerware stretched the length of the room, though the king had not hosted a formal feast in his lifetime. A massive, ornate clock bearing the original markings of the sun-based time system ticked away. The figures etched on the face, the forgotten hours of the former day and night, had long ago been replaced by the terminology of cycles, a basic system to keep time in a world that never changed. The Crown’s timekeepers continued to log the passage of time based on the old ways, with clocks such as this one, or using handheld chronometers. The long-term accuracy of these antiques, which required winding and maintenance, was dubious at best. It was impossible to know how innacurate the counting of the long ages had become, or exactly how long ago the sun had stopped, though the detailed records of the royal genealogies helped form an estimate.
All of these items, these memories of a more glorious age, should have been in the Hall of Antiquities, where they could have been properly cared for. Instead, they remained scattered about the throne; sad, moldering reminders of what had been.
Reaching the far end of the hall, beyond the raised platform of the marble throne, Cyprian stood before the ancient remains of the legendary God of Punishment, Aedesda. Fixed to the stone wall with metal hooks and wires, the immense skeleton was a ghoulish display of the king’s triumph.
Truly, the triumph belonged to Cyprian’s father, and once again, the skeleton should have been preserved at the Hall of Antiquities. Cyprian remembered when his father had returned from his expedition and presented the desiccated remains to the king. The body had been mummified and was identifiable; tissue had still clung to it.
Now, nineteen long-cycles of being displayed like a hunting trophy had turned the last tissue into dust. The misshapen, brittle bones were all that remained.
Easily twice the height of a normal man, the barbed and jagged skeleton was a horror to behold. The empty eye sockets leered at Cyprian above a mouth of jagged teeth. Curved horns stretched from the temples of the skull. Fixed above it was the ebony halo that had once hung suspended above the god’s head. Unlike the body, the halo was as polished as it certainly had been in the age when the gods had walked the earth.
Staring at the halo, Cyprian shuddered. He could not imagine what it must have felt like for his father to discover such a thing. The fear and wonder it must have evoked. The knowledge and glory provided by a find like that was incalculable. It was no wonder that he’d gone out again.
Cyprian considered his own paltry finds in the relatively benign areas surrounding the city and felt embarrassment. His self-pity was interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing through the hall, and he turned to see several royal guardsmen, including Mather, entering the throne room.
They assembled in an obviously practiced way, and one stepped forward. He was dressed in a shabby red uniform adorned with faded yellow epaulets and carried a tarnished horn. He pressed it to his lips and let loose a long, tone-deaf honk. The musical skill once possessed by the king’s heralds was as lost to the ages as the architectural prowess of the old kingdom’s builders.
“Announcing! Phar-Mindorius, Lord of the City of Nordabor and High King of the Collected Realms of Vingallea!” the herald shouted unnecessarily to his gathered comrades and Cyprian. He stepped aside flamboyantly, and the rest followed suit, parting for the entrance of their king. Mather looked impatient and irritated by the pointless, but traditional, introduction.
Phar-Mindorius, threadbare royal raiment draped over his thin body, made his way slowly by the guardsmen. He gingerly ascended the marble steps, then lowered himself onto his throne with a sigh.
“Thank you. You are dismissed,” he said, not unkindly. “I wish to speak with Lord Fontaine in private.”
“Yes, sire, of course,” Mather responded. He looked at the other men and gestured swiftly for them to clear the room. The guardsmen filed out efficiently, leaving the king alone with his sister-son.
Cyprian noted with some sadness that the stresses of the crown had made his uncle old before his time. He sat hunched slightly forward, as though an invisible weight rested upon his shoulders. The robes he wore, passed down through generations of monarchs, were frayed and worn, and matched his matted gray beard and the unkempt, black eyebrows that twitched upon his deeply creased forehead. Above that, the Skullcap Crown of Phan-Ellara rested upon his head. The ancient bone fragment, recovered from Vingallea’s greatest queen, was encrusted with priceless gems, and was the only part of Phar-Mindorius’s appearance that accurately reflected the power he wielded.
The king smiled gently at Cyprian, who gave a small, curt bow in response.
“Cyprian. It’s been too long,” he said warmly.
“That it has, Your Majesty. How can I be of service to you?”
“There’s no need for such formality with me. We are kin. I know that our relation has been a distant one for these past long-cycles, and I take responsibility for that. Rorik, bless him, left me in a very tough position. Left us all, really. And what he put your mother through …” Phar-Mindorius trailed off, seeing Cyprian’s hostile gaze looking through him. “I don’t mean to be opening any old wounds. I just wish to clear the air.”
“My father did not choose to fail you, my mother, or the kingdom. For all we know, he and his men are still out there, completing your orders. We have no proof otherwise. You wouldn’t allow any search parties beyond the edge of the forest, even after they found his cache.”
Phar-Mindorius looked at him with a mix of sadness and pity that made Cyprian feel like a child again. It infuriated him, but he bit back on his anger.
“It’s been nineteen long-cycles. All reports say it is a hostile and unforgiving world out there.” The king shook his head sadly. “I am not hopeful. I’m sorry, Cyprian. Your father was dear to me as well.”
Cyprian turned away and stared intently into one of the sputtering fires, saying nothing.
“Your father’s expedition is part of why I’ve summoned you here,” Phar-Mindorius said. The words caught Cyprian’s attention, as he must have known they would.
“I’m listening,” Cyprian replied cautiously.
“Rorik’s search for a better land, in the traditional sense of such a thing, was misguided. I am as much to blame as anyone for that. We were focusing on finding something akin to Nordabor, while misunderstanding the opportunity before us. Some new information has come to light that has changed that. Knowledge of antiquities—the knowledge held by you—is now of the utmost importance. I need your help.”
Cyprian assumed that this last statement was meant to instill awe in him; being needed by the king should seem like a great honor. He said nothing and waited for Phar-Mindorius to continue. A look of frustration passed over the king’s face.
“When your father left, many did not understand the full nature of his expedition. That was by design. We’ve reached a point where I do not feel it’s necessary to hold anything back. The city is beginning to fail; do you deny it?”
Sudden urgency had seized Phar-Mindorius’s voice, adding an unsettling tremor. It sounded like fear.
Cyprian considered what he said. Things in Nordabor had been declining within recent memory—lower crop yields, more illness, unrest in the lower classes. It was subtle, but undeniable. He’d lived long enough to remember when things had been better.
“No, I don’t deny it. I see what you’re talking about,” Cyprian said slowly. “Nordabor is finally following the rest of the world. It’s inexplicable that it’s taken this long.”
“But it’s not. There is a reason that the city has survived. It has thrived for generations. Only now does it begin to fail, and the process is accelerating. Come.”
With some effort, the king stood up. “I have something to show you.”
He descended the marble steps and walked toward the rear door. Despite his misgivings, Cyprian’s curiosity was growing. He followed.
“You know much of the history and lore of our land. I know this,” Phar-Mindorius said without looking back. “You know of the war between the old ones that broke this world. That froze the sun in the sky and killed the wind. The traitorous brothers and their disastrous rebellion. The loss of the old ones’ true divinity.”
“Of course,” Cyprian responded. The conversation had turned firmly into his wheelhouse, and he was a bit surprised at the king’s knowledge of specifics. It had taken him many readings of archaic tomes to glean details like that. He’d never seen the king in the Hall of Antiquities, and Phar-Mindorius certainly hadn’t learned anything from his son.
“Not all of the old ones met the same fate as our friend Aedesda back there. Rather, they all faded into obscurity after the Father-God’s murder. Even the false god, the usurper Ulesreto, was able to disappear while his brother lay dead in the sand. They all slid into myth, as you know well.”
As Phar-Mindorius spoke, they wound their way through narrow, unfamiliar, soot-walled passages, barely lit by low-burning torches.
“That is, until your father dug out Aedesda’s remains. Until he found the Gates of Punishment. Then, old legend became fact.” He stopped abruptly and turned around, facing Cyprian. “But the royal lineage of this realm has known for certain the existence of the old ones since antiquity. We’ve always known they were flesh and blood, just as we are. Let me show you how.”
Phar-Mindorius whirled around and continued down the passage, moving faster than Cyprian would have believed was possible. Cyprian remained fixed for a moment, processing what the king had just said. Somehow, he and his predecessors had known more about the old ones than the curators.
“Wait,” he said, half jogging to catch up. Before he could continue his line of questioning, Phar-Mindorius stopped in front of a black door. Cold air poured into the passage through the cracks in the damp wood.
“This hold has been able to survive for so long because of a stroke of luck, Cyprian. When even Vin-Sadavat fell, Nordabor survived. Because of that, Vingallea lives on. Phan-Casmia was a refugee from the capital when she arrived here, when your ancestor, Thandale, abdicated the throne for her. Together, our family has kept this city alive.”
He was speaking very quickly now, the words cascading out in an anxious monologue. Cyprian only stared back, transfixed.
“We will continue to keep this city alive. Once I show you this, you will know the full truth of our survival. I can then explain to you what we need to do next.”
Phar-Mindorius pushed open the door, which opened into darkness. The sound of running water could be heard echoing out of the shadows. He lifted a torch from a sconce on the wall and stepped inside.
“Be careful on the steps; they can be slick.”
Cyprian followed him into the darkness, and the two descended a slippery, uneven, stone staircase. Upon reaching the bottom, the sound of the water had grown to a low roar, and was accompanied by a strong, earthy stench of decay. Phar-Mindorius dipped the torch into a large basin, igniting the material within and filling the grotto with flickering firelight. Cyprian gasped.
Suspended from heavy chains, partially submerged in the rushing waters, was a humanoid figure as large, and nearly as thin, as the skeleton of Aedesda. Its head hung down, facing toward the water, and its long arms were pulled up and back by the chains. Fungal growths covered the moldering-bark texture of its skin. Wet black hair, entangled with putrid ivy, hung down in filthy streaks from its head. Beyond some slight swaying due to the pull of the water, it was still. Above the limp head, a simple halo of rotten wood hung unnaturally, perfectly still in the cold air.
Cyprian had studied much of the old world, and had pored over the information available regarding the old ones especially. He knew, based on the recorded testimonials of veterans who had survived the war between the gods, that the Father-God, Alminnian, had been killed by the rebels. He knew that at some point, the rebel god Aedesda had been killed as well, as evidenced by the skeleton displayed upstairs. As for the others, he’d assumed that they’d all met some end at one point or another, as no evidence of them remained. He never imagined that he would come face-to-face with a living specimen. Assuming the still form in front of him was still alive.
“She’s still alive. Barely,” Phar-Mindorius said, as if he’d been reading Cyprian’s thoughts.
“This is an old one,” Cyprian said, in awe.
“Indeed. She was known as Ganachim, revered as the God of the Earth. It’s because of her that Nordabor has survived while everything else has gone to ruin.”
Cyprian looked at the languishing body of the god. The wooden halo. There could be no doubt.
“How did-why-does she speak?” he stammered eagerly, suddenly envisioning this god answering his questions about the past.
“She was found near the Einfallen’s northern split not long after the war. She must have been injured in the conflict, and further weakened when the Father-God perished and took the world’s divinity with him. The scouts who found her brought her back here in the time of Thandale. He saw to it that she was imprisoned down here. As far as I know, she’s always been catatonic. She’s never uttered a word.”
Cyprian took a few tentative steps forward, crouching slightly to gaze up into the face of the limp head. Discomfort washed over him as he observed that her rheumy eyes were open. They stared into oblivion from her pallid, wet face with milky indifference. He stepped back, grimacing. His initial excitement waning, he now began to feel pity for the hanging body.
“Why is she here? And why the secrecy?” he asked.
“It is her power that fuels the natural world around the city. Her remaining divine influence has kept the surrounding forests lush, the crops growing and the livestock healthy,” Phar-Mindorius explained. He gestured toward the running water. “She purifies the waters of the Einfallen that we drink. As for the secrecy, she is the only thing keeping this kingdom alive. It would be far too dangerous if her presence were known to all. It would invite anarchy. One disgruntled commoner, given the chance, could topple the kingdom—not to mention threats from outside the walls should word of her existence somehow pass beyond our realm. No, the fewer people who know the secret of our survival, the better. Thandale knew that, and the secrecy has been sustained ever since.”
Considering his position in the royal family, Cyprian felt insulted at his exclusion from this knowledge. Phar-Mindorius seemed to sense it.
“I’m sorry, my boy. This knowledge is held only by the direct line of succession and the shepherds. It was never believed that there would be a need to tell anyone else. Thandale assumed that she would last forever; after all, the gods were believed to be naturally immortal. She required no food, no care—nothing—making her the ideal engine for our survival. I am unfortunate enough that, after the many illustrious lifetimes of my forefathers, it has fallen on me, in my time, to witness her final collapse.”
Phar-Mindorius gazed at the captive god with sorrow, lost in thought. He suddenly seemed exhausted.
It occurred to Cyprian that Phar-Mindorius’s cold disposition toward him during these past long-cycles had much to do with the heavy burden of this knowledge. He’d had all of his hopes pinned on Rorik Fontaine. Rorik’s failure, his young son, and his grieving wife were constant reminders of the king’s inability to save his entire realm from impending doom.
“Did my father know about this?” Cyprian asked, stirring the king from his thoughts.
“He knew only what was necessary for his expedition. He knew only what we sought, not why. I want to do things differently with you. I don’t want to repeat my mistakes.”
Cyprian processed this for a moment. His curiosity forced him to put aside his resentment.
“Why is she suddenly failing now?”
“It could be a number of things. Her captivity, coupled with her old wounds, could have led to a slow decline. She may have been failing for several long-cycles, and we’re finally now seeing the effects. The forging of the shepherds’ blades has appeared to weaken her as well.”
“The shepherds’ blades?” Cyprian asked, considering for the first time that the shepherds were also privy to this secret knowledge. He’d known that the elite shepherds, utilizing their hallowed blades, were the only ones capable of destroying a shade, of freeing a soul. He’d assumed that the esoteric order had some mysterious way of doing so, but he’d never imagined that it involved a captive god.
“Yes. Anointed in the blood of Ganachim. As the god of all natural life, whatever power moves through Ganachim’s veins, the shades are repulsed by it. My ancestors, desperate to extend their own lives, ordered their private sect of healers to use Ganachim’s blood as an elixir, thinking that her power might heal their ailments. It didn’t, but though it failed to save them, those healers, who eventually became the shepherds, found that the elixir harmed any shades born from the dying subjects. Through experimentation, it was found that when a newly forged blade was quenched in her blood, the blade could actually destroy the shades. Unfortunately, the many long-cycles of bloodletting have taken a toll on her.”
Cyprian struggled to organize his thoughts. He considered everything he’d just learned, and wondered why Phar-Mindorius was telling him now.
He stared again at Ganachim’s massive body. From what he’d previously read, she had been a mighty force in the old days. It was hard to fathom that such a being’s power could have waned so much. It was haunting to see a mythological figure laid low before him.
He turned away from her and faced the king. “You said you needed my help. You said you’d learned something new that changes things.”
“That’s right. Come. I tire easily now, and I wish to return to more comfortable chambers. I’ll tell you the rest then.”
●
They had returned through the maze of darkened passages and emerged in a small, warm chamber adjacent to the throne room. There, Phar-Mindorius had reclined on a burgundy couch and taken a moment to compose himself. The hike through the lower passages, and the revealing of Ganachim, had left him physically and mentally exhausted. Cyprian sat in an ornately carved wooden chair near the hearth and waited for the next revelation.
“When your father was sent forth, I knew that Ganachim was winding down,” Phar-Mindorius explained finally, as if there had been no pause in the conversation. “I believed that our best chance was to find somewhere that still thrived, despite all evidence to the contrary. Rorik went first into the Daylands, but found them to be dry, inhospitable wastes. While there, of course, he found Aedesda. I should have been more focused on that, but I was too focused on the simple solution of finding a new land. If I had truly considered your father’s find, I might not have sent him back out so swiftly, and so recklessly.”
He gazed into the fire and shook his head slowly, ruminating on his regret. Cyprian said nothing, knowing that the king was speaking to himself as much as to him.
“You see, the real answer was what Rorik found with the body of Aedesda. I overlooked it at the time, but now I fully understand the significance.” He broke his gaze from the fire and looked at Cyprian.
“Embedded in the chest of the corpse was the hilt of a broken sword.”
Cyprian sat up in his chair and leaned forward. He’d never heard that a relic had been recovered with the body. It was yet another ancient treasure that had never made its way to the Hall of Antiquities, where it belonged.
“It just seemed like another useless relic. I didn’t imagine it had any bearing on our situation. However, I was wrong.”
“So what is the significance of this hilt?” Cyprian asked, running through his own knowledge to try and discern an answer.
“I have recently been approached by a wanderer from the outside. A badlander. The knowledge he imparted, combined with that already known to me, has made me realize that this hilt may be the key to our salvation. It may be the handle of the Scale of Judgment.”
Cyprian was immediately incredulous. The Scale of Judgment, the rebellious god Ulesreto’s fabled key to the Gates of Paradise, was said to have shattered when Alminnian died. Without the Father-God, Ulesreto was stripped of his divine power of judgment, and the gates had been permanently sealed shut.
“The Scale of Judgment? Even if it was, the blade is broken, and the gates are shut. You can’t possibly be suggesting that entrance into Paradise is somehow possible. Who is this badlander peddling fairy tales to the king?”
Phar-Mindorius’s countenance darkened.
“He is called Duncan Starkad, and what he speaks of is no fairy tale. You, of all people, should understand the accuracy of the recorded legends. Have you not just witnessed a living god with your own eyes? The surviving old ones understood that the blade could be reforged. Perhaps Ulesreto did not, as he left the hilt with the brother he presumably killed after their rebellion failed. But the others knew. Starkad, whom you’ve spoken ill of so glibly, has travelled farther than any living person in this city. His knowledge of the ancient exceeds your own. He has told me that the living old ones remain hidden in this world, hoarding the broken shards of the blade so that none might ever try to open the gates again. So that Vingallea, who followed the rebels into war, might be punished until we are no more.”
“So, this wanderer—this Starkad,” Cyprian said cautiously, not wishing to raise the king’s ire further, “has somehow made it into the city just to convince you of the value of an artifact that only you knew you had?”
“He encountered your father in his travels. He may have been the last person to see the expedition before their disappearance. Trading goods and knowledge with Rorik, he learned of the purpose of the quest. Rorik was smart; he saw the value in the hilt before I did. I imagine he asked Starkad for any tidings related to the blade shards. Starkad was inspired to seek them out himself. Now he has come bearing knowledge of their locations.”
The news of his father had blunted Cyprian’s misgivings. If this badlander knew anything of his father’s last whereabouts, he needed to speak with him. If he knew enough to seek out Nordabor with that sort of information, perhaps there was some legitimacy to it.
“What’s in it for Starkad? Why does he come now bearing this important knowledge?”
“It took him many long-cycles to determine the locations of the old ones. He appears to be an adept explorer, and succeeded where we failed. Once he had the information we sought, he came here to offer it in exchange for title, land, and power. He is no altruistic man of Vingallea. He is of the wastes, but he seeks comfort and security. If he is right, and we’re able to enter Paradise, he can have whatever he wants.”
Entering Paradise seemed impossible. Myth and history intersected at one important point: the gates were sealed shut. The records of the final conflict, crumbling scrolls supposedly documenting eyewitness accounts, were often muddled and contradictory, but certain consistencies were clear—the final battle had resulted in the death of the Vingallean monarch, Phar-Karrian, the destruction of the blade, and the permanent closure of the gates.
Still, Cyprian allowed himself a slim hope. “So, I have to imagine that you want me to lead an expedition to these locations. You want me to somehow get these blade shards from living old ones.”
“I want you as a part of this expedition. As the curator, my son will be leading it, but we both know your knowledge is invaluable.”
The objection jumped from his mouth before he could stop it.
“You cannot put Phir-Ramarian in charge of an endeavor like this; not if you want my assistance,” Cyprian spat. “My father, as curator, was entrusted with leading. It is my rightful place to lead this.”
“Your rightful place,” Phar-Mindorius said icily, “is to obey your king’s orders. We are family, Cyprian, so I will forgive your speaking out of turn. Phir-Ramarian is my son, and I trust him completely. He is also your curator and your prince. You may lack faith in his abilities, but I do not. In an expedition of this magnitude, the steady hand of a sovereign is needed.”
Cyprian considered walking away, letting his spite and resentment take the reins. However, the unpleasant prospect of being second to Phir-Ramarian on the expedition was not enough to deter his desire to leave the realm. To see the outside world and encounter the old ones. To seek the glory of obtaining the hidden blade shards and, possibly, bringing salvation to Nordabor. He knew that, resentment or not, he would be unable to resist the call of this journey.
“I understand,” he said evenly, “and I accept the honor of joining this expedition.”
Phar-Mindorius smiled. “I knew you would, my boy. Captain Mather will gather the other leaders. When we have our full company accounted for, you’ll be summoned again. Starkad will outline the expedition’s route. He’ll be joining you as well, as a guide. You will, of course, be one of the high-ranking officials on the expedition. As such, you can assemble your own team of subordinates.”
Faye and Jotun jumped to Cyprian’s mind.
“I will await your further orders, then,” Cyprian said, rising from his chair. He was now eager to speak with the badlander, to learn all he could of his father and of what awaited him beyond the city walls. He excused himself politely and began a slow walk back to the Hall of Antiquities. He had much to consider.
·
With Cyprian’s involvement secured, Phar-Mindorius retired to his private chambers to await word that the others had been notified. An order from the king would ensure that those he felt were necessary for the completion of this endeavor would comply. Unlike his nephew, they would not all need to know the specifics. Nor would the less-inquiring minds bother asking.
Of course, the king had not been entirely truthful regarding who was aware of Ganachim’s presence in the city. As the chief officer of the Royal Guard, Mather knew. Starkad, despite not saying so, appeared to have gleaned the source of Nordabor’s survival. And most importantly, unbeknownst to anyone else in the kingdom, the hidden vizier knew.
He knew much.
Beyond the king’s own chamber, only accessible to him, was the vizier’s chamber. He went there now to update his advisor on the progress of their plan.
Phar-Mindorius had depended on the steadfast guidance of the vizier since he’d inherited the crown from his mother, Phan-Yavurnia. She had brought him to this undisclosed alcove near the end of her time and told him of the vizier’s presence and purpose. How he had approached her in her youth, and provided her with a deep well of knowledge over the course of her reign. How the other advisors of the court had feared and distrusted the mysterious outsider. At his own urging, he had been secreted away in a hidden chamber.
In all of the king’s long-cycles, he’d never broken bread with the nameless vizier. He’d never even seen him outside of his private residence. The king was no fool, and suspected that there was something unnatural, something divine, about the advisor.
In all of the records of the gods, nothing was said after the war concerning the ancient God of Knowledge, Nuroh. Phar-Mindorius suspected that Nuroh had made his way to Nordabor in order to continue his role of guiding mankind, despite their hatred and fear of the old ones.
He also believed that Nuroh was aware of his unspoken suspicions, but he had grown so dependent on the vizier’s counsels that he dared not question him, lest he cease his assistance.
Whatever the source of his divine power, he was no mindless husk to be enslaved, like Ganachim. And it was his suggestion that had launched the first successful expedition. It was he who had determined that the blade could be reforged when Starkad came bearing knowledge of what the old ones were doing.
Phar-Mindorius entered the chamber quietly in order not to disturb the meditations of his oracle. Within the room, a narrow, elevated platform, surrounded by stone steps leading to the top, dominated the space. On top of the platform was a high-backed wooden chair that was invariably occupied by the vizier. Around the circumference of the round platform, a thin blue veil hung, partially concealing the frail, elderly vizier.
“Your Majesty,” the vizier rasped in a near-whisper after a few moments of Phar-Mindorius waiting.
“I have spoken with my nephew, and he’s agreed to help lead the expedition. He’s rash, like his father was, but his knowledge of the old world is unmatched by all. Except, perhaps, for this Starkad.”
“Very good, my lord,” said the weak voice from the shadowed figure behind the veil. “No doubt, he will be an asset. As for Starkad, he knows much, but he is not of Vingallea. He cannot be relied upon if things become dangerous. He should be relegated to being only a guide. He will go whichever way the wind blows. Either way, I trust that your nephew, and your son, of course, will guide this expedition to completion.”
Phar-Mindorius nodded in agreement. “The other leaders will be notified shortly. Very soon, we’ll be ready for the expedition’s departure. I can only hope it finds success.”
“It is the hope for us all,” the vizier replied.
The king remained there, standing before his unusual advisor awkwardly, unsure of what else to say. These meetings often left him with a feeling of inferiority, as if he were the servant.
“You are dismissed,” Phar-Mindorius finally managed.
“Thank you, sire.”
The world is dying. The gods have waged war against one another and are scattered and weakening. Everything from the sun to the winds are affected. Cyprian Fontaine is a collector of artifacts who holds a noble lineage. Years ago, his father set out on an expedition to save the world but never returned. When he learns the true nature of what his father was doing, Cyprian knows he will need to join the expedition attempting to finish what his father didn't and save the world from certain death. But along the way the party will face extreme weather they are not used to, starving and maddened humans who want to enslave them, and gods who while weakened are still certainly powerful enough to kill any mortal. Guiding the expedition is a single outsider, a so called badlander. But are his motivations to help humanity survive or simply to achieve his own ends?
Badlander is a fascinating book that pulls no punches whatsoever. It's nice to see a fantasy book that actually takes into account the environment as well. The threats are not simply endless sword battles but things as simple as lack of food or water could easily kill this party if they are not careful. Tom Golden does a fantastic job of managing a large list of characters, knowing when to zoom in on some and turn away from others.
At times it seemed perhaps the scale of the gods depicted in the book was somewhat flexible and it was hard to tell exactly how much of a threat they were. There are also a few times where battles may have lasted just a tad too long in the book but reading to the end was wholly satisfying. The last act of the book does not end in the way much of fantasy does and this makes it utterly refreshing to read.
The book is a good mix of survival adventure, political intrigue, fantasy action, a bit of romance, and a whole lot of sacrifice.
If you like fantasy books where the characters take on impossible odds and keep trying to save the world because there is no other choice, this book should be right for you. If nothing else, I guarantee you will not forget the ending of this book.