Chapter 2 – The Elder
Council
I
receive my summons at the graying of dawn. Report to the Elder
Council at first bell. I had
been awake for several hours before the village woke for breakfast, so a
renewed drowsiness had crept into my eyes by the time I arrived. When I arrive outside the council tent,
an Elven chambermaid directs me to sit on the bench outside. She stands there and watches me,
tilting her head slightly at my every shift.
I
can smell the smoke of the incense from outside the chamber. The Elder Council uses an herbal
mixture to clear their thoughts.
This ancient ritual makes me nauseous. One more reason to dread this meeting. I hate missions. I hate journeys. If not for Aureleus, I would hate all
Orcs. I just want to stay in my
hut.
“What
is that in your hand?” the chambermaid asks. She speaks in Elven.
She has probably never left this village. Never seen an Orc.
Never heard the cries or smelled the cinders of a raid.
My
fingers clutch my totem of Charybdax, the Blue. It is a dark wooden token with a floating duck engraved on one
side and a swooping kingfisher engraved on the other. Like these two water birds, Charybdax, the Blue, is a god of
extremes. He is a healer and a
destroyer.
“It
is my holy totem. I am a priest,”
I reply.
“Are
you an Avox?” she asks in a low tone.
I do not know what the Elder Council expects her to know about me.
“The
other clerics say I am a Blue. I
am unsure. One is seldom an
accurate judge of oneself,” I say, rubbing the token back and forth between my
thumb and forefinger.
“If
you are a Blue, then what do you know of this rain? Is this the will of Charybdax?” she whispers.
“The
wills of the gods, especially the fickle Charybdax, are a mystery, as they have
always been. It is not our duty to
understand their will.”
This
is my default advice. It has kept
me employed and steadily promoted in the Cloud State military since I
arrived. If I were to answer her
honestly, I would tell her that the gods are gone. The Orcs sweep across the island in every direction, the
rain would drown us out before the Orcs even arrive, and the island is falling
apart from within. What god would
stay and watch as his followers die?
The alternative to the gods’ desertion is divine punishment, and I find
that thought even more depressing.
The
maid is called into the smoke chamber, and I am left alone outside. People walk past me on the porch. Several messengers enter and exit the
smoke chamber while I sit outside and wait. I think my headache, born of the rain pounding and dripping
through the canopy, subdues me into sleep, because I am startled awake to the
sound of bells.
The
second bell is ringing, as it always does after midday meal. Aureleus’s lumbering limbs slump up the
stairs and sit next to me on the bench.
“Did
you receive the summons? What
possessed you to show up after second bell when the summons said first?” I ask him incredulously.
“I
see I’m not late. It seems I know
this Council better than you do. I
haven’t missed midday meal like you have.”
The
Elf girl exits the chamber.
“Please,
come in,” she says. Her thin frame
holds the tent flap open, and she directs us to stoop and enter.
I
bend down and shuffle into the room.
“Thanks for making us wait,” Aureleus snorts as he enters behind
me. I cannot believe his gall, but
he and the elf chambermaid exchange smiles as he walks in. I know now, for certain, that she has
never seen a true Orc.
“That
is Yisho, the Elf I spoke to. She
is the reason we have an audience,” Aureleus whispers and jabs me in the side.
“No,
you and your foolishness are why we
are here,” I cough the words out through the haze from the smoke. The incense assaults my senses like a
wall, infesting my lungs. It is
spicy and hot, but it washes into me like a smooth wave. The smoke oozes like lava, the same
lava that seeps through the cracks in the Falcon Island crust.
I
detest the smoke, and the sensations of drowning. My first several summons, I immediately created an air bubble around my face with my magic. The Elder Council members protested
endlessly, and refused to continue with the meeting until I allowed the herbs
to infiltrate my lungs. “It is the
path to clarity and prophecy,” they always say. To me, this smoke is a path to delusions and hallucinations,
none of which have proven prophetic in my ten-year tenure as Chief Cleric of
Charybdax.
The
nine Elders are sitting in a half circle on the wood-plank floor, with the
incense spewing from a fire-pit in front of them. Yisho directs us to stand in front of them, next to each
other.
I
want this meeting over quickly, so I cough and hack through the smoke. My eyes water and my skin glistens with
new sweat. I breathe in and drink
the thick herbal mixture until the drowning is over and the waking death begins.
“Welcome
Rus. And welcome…Graal,” the most wrinkled Elf nearly
spits the last word. The Cloud State soldiers were not content to address
Aureleus with his given name when he joined. They were bitter and cruel to him, and it only got worse
when he became the best warrior and tracker in the service. I was one of the few who knew his given
name, before his mother died, but I could not protect him all the time. They all called him Graal.
Graal was a name constructed in
Pre-Falconic to mean “tall, destructive oaf.” If there is any kind of prophecy
at all on Falcon Island, is it through our Pre-Falconic names. Although each race has its own
language, the island-folk (Elves, humans, dwarves, Halflings, and gnomes) all
speak modern Falconic. Our names,
however, are all constructed using Pre-Falconic roots, a language in which each
letter of a word holds a primitive, basic symbolic meaning. Aureleus’s given
name is actually quite beautiful and terrifying, just as he is. Translated, Aureleus means “man who rises through destruction of the
land.” To be reduced to Graal is heartbreaking to hear.
Yisho,
the Elf, addresses us.
“This
is High Elder Paviq, the eldest of the chiefs,” she informs.
I
have never met Elder Paviq before in person, so I know it is my duty to respond
to this introduction.
“It
is an honor to meet you, High Elder Paviq,” I say as I bow over the fire-pit.
“Thank
you, Yisho,” he says to the chambermaid.
He has yet to look Aureleus or me in the eye. Maybe the herbs have clouded his vision. “I know the two of you have had
scattered experience in the Orc territory of Embertalon. Rus, you are a very competent mage and
cleric, despite your reservations.
Graal…you are a good warrior.”
To
say that he is a good warrior is a gross understatement. For a good warrior, a weapon is an
extension of an arm. For Aureleus,
his great-axe is an extension of his eye.
Once Aureleus spots a target, no terrain, no other enemy, no unforeseen
fate can deter him from his game.
Aureleus has slain more Orcs than any warrior since the eruption of
Radicus. Aureleus hears Elder Paviq’s
statement as I do—as an insult.
And
Aureleus cannot hold his tongue.
“And
I am unkillable thus far.”
I
do not like their open disdain for him.
They summoned us both, and if I am to believe what Aureleus told me this
morning, they are sending us for a mission. They should not treat him this way. But I am not brave. I wish I could say something, but
instead, I shift my feet.
High
Elder Paviq shows no indication that he hears Aureleus’s taunt. His eyes are glazed, and he continues
unfazed.
“Yisho
has brought Graal’s theory to our attention. The Elder Council maintains that the idea of Dwarven
deserters willingly aiding the Orcs into our territory is absurd and ridiculous. It is clear you should be prized for
your muscle, and not for your imagination.”
Aureleus
clenches his fists. No amount of
herbs and smoke can cloud his sense of pride. He juts his lower teeth out like tusks over his top lip. I pray that he does not respond, but as
always, the gods do not hear.
“And
you should be prized for your long life, but not for how you have filled it!”
Another
Elven master speaks up in response.
“How dare you address Master Paviq in this way, mongrel?”
“Master
Limvay speaks,” Yisho introduces the new speaker.
Paviq
raises his hand and Limvay quiets himself.
“However,”
Paviq continues. He pauses for a
long time and breathes the smoke in deeply, “as the Beating Sea expands, and as
the crust of our home cracks, you are clever to consider that we could be
vulnerable from underground. As
the two of you have already learned from the reports, we have declared the
Dwarven High State as fallen. We
must begin new rescue efforts. We
have run extraction missions across the island before, but the rampaging Orcs
have never been as thick into High State as they are now. Several of our best guides were never
found after the Ryeldar incident.
“The
two of you are to make your way across the island to Raptor’s Rock, the High
State stronghold. Lord Drakaz’s
younger cousin, Lord Nams, is waiting for you to escort him here.” Paviq still has not looked away from
the dancing embers in the center of the room.
Aureleus
speaks before I can. “I was under
the impression you accepted my request to investigate the Ryeldar Outpost. Instead, you are sending us to fetch a
noble and bring him here. Despite
Master Limvay’s opinion, I am not a dog.”
“I
do not understand,” I interject. I
do not want to be punished for his insubordination. If we are punished, I want it to be for asking the right
questions, not for an insult.
“Why, and how, should only the
two of us traverse Embertalon, a barren and torched territory swarming with
Orcs? How are we to enter the tunnels of High State, where the Dwarves have even
been forced to build walls out of the corpses of their own miners to reroute
the Orcs? Why are we to retrieve
Lord Nams, the youngest of the
Dwarven lords? Why not Drakaz, or
either of the others? What about
King Ashnard, himself? How does he
propose to escape Raptor’s Rock? Pardon
my manners, but there is no way that this could be the entire plan.”
I
try to keep my voice calm and forceful, but Aureleus hangs his head deeper each
time my voice cracks or wavers. He
hears my fear, and he knows my objections are a veil to mask my anxiety. Another
Elven chief, young, slender and calm picks up a small kettle of water and pours
it slowly on the fire-pit, sending steam billowing and thickening the chamber
with haze.
“Master
Barca speaks,” Yisho informs us.
This elder, however, I already know. He is the president of Stratos Tower, the Elven school of
battle magic.
“The
four Dwarven lords are beseiged in their stone castle. If we hope to preserve the Dwarven
court and its people, we must relocate the kingdom. Lord Nams is the youngest of the Paleotus family. In King Ashnard's absence, Lord Drakaz
saw fit to send Nams here first.”
Aureleus
speaks again, this time, with a harsh curiosity. “King Ashnard’s absence? Where is he?”
Barca
replies, “Lord Drakaz has informed us, through one of Romox’s loyal pigeons,
that King Ashnard has been missing for three seasons.”
“Three
seasons! The attack on Ryeldar
happened three seasons ago!” Aureleus exclaims. “Why did they not inform us sooner? Is he dead? Why not declare another king?”
“You
know the Dwarves are a proud race.
They are fiercely patriotic,” Barca says, eyes never opening. As he speaks, he moves his hands in
long, swirling gestures. The smoke
dances in his fingers, where it holds shapes for only an instant before it
dissipates into new ones. “In a
time when more of their home is seized daily by Orc marauders, and only pain
and death are found in their tunnels below, the people look for strength from
above. They look to their King and
court. An empty throne is a sign
of weakness for any nation.
However, Dwarven law states that a successor may not be named until
proof exists of the current King’s death.
Until proof of his death is recovered, Raptor’s Rock will remain
headless. This is the reason you
are retrieving Lord Nams first. He
is the youngest, and is therefore perceived as the weakest. The court will retain their people’s
faith for as long as the eldest heir remains in Raptor’s Rock. It is our hope
that their keep will not become their tomb.”
The
haze is getting so thick, I can barely see the Elders sitting in front of
me. The entire chamber is milky
with smoke, and I am unable to think straight. I know it is the incense, but my mind swims with
anguish. I am swiftly overcome by
panic and grief. I breathe in fear and breathe out dread. The Orcs took my village seventeen
years ago, but it was only a village.
Wooden huts on an open plain.
We fled, but we were wildly outnumbered and savagely overtaken. We were only a village.
But
this—Raptor’s Rock, the keep and capital of High State—this is a mountain
fortress, protected by highly trained and bred soldiers, fighting in terrain
that gives them an undoubted advantage.
The Dwarves have been masters of phalanx fighting and fierce protectors
of their tunnels since before the eruption of Radicus, eons before the arrival
of the Orcs. If they are falling
back…if they are fleeing, then truly, there is no hope for us all.
“There
have been enough lost to the horde already. I will not go. I
will live as a coward here in my hut, high off the ground. You said it yourself, Master
Barca. High State is lost.” I turn my back and take a step toward
the tent flap, and the freedom of the wet air outside, when Aureleus grabs my
arm. He has never gripped my arm
as hard as at this moment.
“Rus,
you must come with me.” Aureleus’s words cut into me. Through the miasma of smoke, I can see his eyes. I know, somehow, that this is not the
incense speaking. This is
Aureleus, pure and free, pleading with me.
“Rus
is not here. I do not know who you
expected the Council to summon here today, but it was not supposed to be me.”
Barca
speaks again.
“It
has been determined that the fewer your numbers, and with the blessings of
Crovax and Charybdax, you can make it to Raptor's Rock unharmed. You will leave at first light
tomorrow. We would like you to
stop at the Foothills shrine to Romox and send word of your progress. We have not received any pigeons from
that shrine for quite some time, so we fear that Orcs occupy the shrine. If the Orcs have indeed overrun the
shrine, do what you can to clear it.
We cannot allow them to continue defiling it.
Elder
Paviq addresses us again. He opens
his glassy green eyes and looks at me.
“Rus. We have anticipated
your anxiety. Trust in your
abilities. Put whatever trust you
can in your ally. We both know how
fickle the mighty Charybdax can be."
Paviq contorts his face into a weak smile. “Graal...Aureleus,” Paviq corrects himself, “Prove your worth.
Watch out for Rus and Lord Nams, and bring them back safely. If you succeed, you will have my full
respect.”
Aureleus
responds immediately, “When I am out there fighting to protect this state, it
is only your feathery gods and Rus watching my back. Not you. I will hold you
to your word.”
“This is the collective wisdom of the Elder
Council,” Paviq announces. That
is the signal that this briefing is complete. Yisho moves to the chamber flap and directs us out of the
smoke chamber. Even as I leave the chamber, I can hear Limvay yelling at how
foolish the council is being, sending an Elf-Orc and a human coward to bring
back Dwarven royalty. I throw my
head out from under the leafy canopy overhead and let the water run down my
forehead, into my eyes, and down my cheeks and my neck. I cough and hack the foreign fresh
air. A pounding headache rushes
behind my eyes, pulsing up from my fingers and toes. I support myself on the railing outside.
“I
think we both could stand to watch our tongues in front of the council. We both could have lost our positions
today,” I say.
Aureleus
shakes his head and looks into the forest toward the East, where the Orcs march. “You still do not see it, Rus. We did lose our positions today. We have been given a death sentence. This is exile, and we may not return
while the Dwarven court is still under siege. Our quest is impossible. We must prove it possible, or we face our doom, as does High
State.”
Of
course, I know he speaks the truth.
His entire life, he has been punished for the crimes of his father, and
now, he faces the Elder Council’s final retribution for the murder of his
mother. It was raining the day she
died. Raining just like this. I had a headache just like now. My temples were on fire. But I remember her name. Ori, which means, “divided one.” She screamed as he was born. He ripped his way out of her, like his
father ripped his way in. I was
sick from the sight of the blood, and then Aureleus was here, and she was gone.
“Aureleus.” I breathe deep, and then the rain
lights my headache aflame. I grunt
and grip my arms around my head. I fall onto my knees by the balcony. “I remember your mother. I was there when you were born, when
your god-sign was revealed. You were almost a White when I saw that dove
perched on the spire near the shrine to watch you arrive. I had prayed for a White. Falcon Island so desperately needed a White
Avox. I
had nearly declared it. But then,
the moment you landed on the Island, a vulture, large and black as sin, landed
on the spire and crushed your poor dove.
There was no disputing it.
You were a Black, and Crovax was watching you closely.”
Aureleus
crouches down next to me, slaps my back, then straightens up. “I must prepare. I will see you at first light. I assume you will be awake before I
meet you.”
“I
will go with you,” I say bluntly.
“I am terrified. I hate travel.
I hate the rain. There are not many men I would go with, but I will go
with you. Into Embertalon. To High State. Into the belly of Mount Radicus if I
have to. It is the last thing your mother asked me to do.”
For
the second time today, Aureleus leaves me standing alone and mystified as he
stomps away into the rain.
