Footman of the Ether

CHAPTER ONE

Caranamere

In all the worlds and all the dimensions Darilos Velar had known, Irikara was unmatched for its fine balance between scorching and freezing, chaos and order, blandness and flamboyance. Irikara was a world of contrasts and compromises, making it rich in energy. Little wonder the gods fought over it.

Does fighting over this world threaten that valuable balance, or does it accentuate it? He gave a wry smile. Yes, he decided, it accentuates it. Peace, after all, is so very boring.

He stood on a hilltop absorbing the sunny, late-autumn morning, just past sunrise. A light breeze, chill with the promise of winter, rustled the dry grass at his feet, yet the heat from the sun warmed his blond hair. Below him lay a valley adorned with changing oaks and elms. The vale seemed on fire with the vermilion and canary yellow of dying leaves, their host trees pulling away the life essence through each fragile petiole until all that was left was this brilliant display of sorrow.

In the center of the valley was situated the town of Caranamere, of the nation of Taxia. Its sleepy streets and somber stone buildings bespoke simplicity and harmony with the setting. A bell tower rang the hour, its deep toll echoing off the edifices of the Astronomer’s Guild at the town’s heart, then out to the surrounding hillsides and beyond into the bright cerulean sky. Two small children ran down the flagstone-paved main street playing “tag the orc.” Goodwives fetched water from the town fountains. A baker pushed a small wagon filled with freshly baked loaves and called out for customers. Thin trails of smoke wafted over the town as townsfolk awoke to light hearth fires.

“How pastoral,” Darilos muttered.

“Pastoral?” asked Apostle Agnon at his side – one of seven mages standing on the hilltop with Darilos. “Let us not wax poetic when destruction is at hand.” The high priest of the Brotherhood of Blood, with his six Disciples, were all dressed in the Brotherhood’s crimson vestments. Darilos was not of the Brotherhood, and his garish red and orange traceried robe to set him apart.

“Pastoral,” Darilos repeated. “It’s a shame we must disturb such simple beauty.”

Agnon narrowed his eyes at Darilos. “You had better deliver on your promise. I’ve staked everything on this, Outlander.”

Outlander, Darilos thought, a suitable alias he had given himself — one of many — for tasks like this. An alias of an alias.

Darilos followed Agnon’s gaze off to his left. A massive, iron-reinforced oak chest sat on the hilltop with them, a long metal bar arcing over the chest like a giant handle. Even with the help of magic, it had taken all night for the Disciples to lug the chest up the hillside on a strained wooden litter. Bright yellow light streamed through the chest’s lid, so bright it defied the morning sun.

Strapped to the side of the chest was a long, slender sword – the Key of Otemus. The Key featured a gleaming, silvery blade and a two-handed hilt, yet the blade was oddly carved with squared pits and curious projections. Darilos could just take the sword now, by force if he wanted to, but a contract had been made. He had to wait for the task to be completed. Contracts, oaths, and promises were perhaps the only things he held sacrosanct.

One of the Disciples, a man with a cherubic face and eyes so blue they could only be described as ultramarine, stepped up to Agnon. “All is readied, Apostle.”

“Thank you, Immolatos.” Agnon then turned back to Darilos. The Apostle’s stark green eyes contrasted with his ashy, pock-marked face. “Your dragon is late! He was supposed to strike at dawn.”

“Mordan does as he must, Apostle,” Darilos replied, but he sensed the dragon nearby. He didn’t need to look. Its energy was blazed like a brilliant star on a hilltop behind them, to the west and behind a low hill. Evidence that he’d been infused with the power of the Triumvirate gods, so-called “terrestrial energy,” which made up nearly all magical energy in the world of Irikara.  But Darilos couldn’t usually feel it unless it was very strong, since he was not of this world. He knew that the Triumvirate, the three gods who created the world of Irikara and now were imprisoned in it, would be reaching through the bars that morning, so to speak, endowing their energy into Mordan.

The Emerald Dragon had been there in the distance all morning, watching, calculating. The Brotherhood mages can’t feel it. Pitiful.

“Why must we be so far away, Outlander? I can hardly see the Guild towers from this distance. It must be half a mile, at least!”

This peevish cultist whines like a child, Darilos thought. He didn’t bother to answer Agnon. He could see farther than these humans. They would need every cubit they could spare during the spectacle to come.

Darilos felt the dragon’s energy shift. Mordan was on the move, silently swooping down into the neighboring valley toward them and the town.

“Apostle, if you have doubts about continuing, now is your last chance to stop this,” Darilos said.

“Of course I have no doubts!”

At that moment the Emerald Dragon roared over the hilltop behind them, scattering the Disciples. Agnon ducked and yelped in surprise. Treetops swayed with the cyclone from his wings. Darilos stood unfazed.

One of the largest of the twelve dragons, at around eighty yards in length including the tail, Mordan’s body bulged with muscle, covered with scales gleaming like emeralds, and crisscrossed with scars. His back was armored with shining steel bars like a metallic exoskeleton of overlapping bones, with a skeletal metal helmet to match. He turned his broad head to look back for a signal. One-eyed from an ancient wound, with wide lateral horns like a water buffalo’s and a mouth lined with serrated fangs, the dragon’s visage was a glimpse into terror.

Darilos pointed down at the Guild compound – a sign that the mission was to proceed. The dragon roared again and swooped low over the town, gaining speed, then shot up past the resplendent hillsides to an incredible height, almost out of sight.

The bell tower rang out in chaotic tolling. Faint screams and shouts of villagers echoed into the sky. They knew the Emerald Dragon’s reputation.

Darilos leaned forward. This should prove interesting, he thought.

Figures moved on the fortified walls of the Guild compound. The mages there harmonized their spellcasting, creating a shimmering Shield spell, one of the strongest he’d seen, over the center of the buildings.

Darilos chuckled. A Shield spell would be little protection against the will of a dragon.

Apostle Agnon called his Disciples to him, then brought forth a leather wineskin. Reciting a quick prayer, he poured out the blood of three virgin youths – two boys and a girl sacrificed just before they came up the hill – coating his right hand and the right hands of each of the Disciples. The Disciples knelt and bowed their heads, raising their blood-stained hands in the air.

“Oh, great Triumvirate,” Agnon chanted, “to you we give the promise of the future. Take from us the shreds of our jaded past. Correct our ignorance. Deliver us to your great powers. See before us a symbol of our dedication to you!”

Darilos paid little attention to the mage’s prayer, even as he felt the energy of the hill beneath him magnify, welling up from the core of the world.

The Triumvirate had come to bear witness.  All three gods, creators of this world, Irikara, trapped in its energies by the Outer Gods.

Agnon finished his prayers and shouted, “They are here! We are in the presence of the Triumvirate!” The Disciples each gave a hail of praise. Agnon searched the sky for the dragon. Darilos looked as well and found Mordan now but a speck in the blue.

The Emerald Dragon finally stopped his ascent, pausing a moment at the suffocative roof of the world. Then he shot downward toward the town, his descent reaching an astonishing speed.

“He’ll kill himself!” Agnon gasped.

Darilos smirked. He still underestimates the dragon!

Mordan pulled in his wings and rolled himself into a tight ball. He barked a one-word spell. The syllable thundered across the sky. He burst into scintillating green flames and multiplied the speed of his descent to the point of blurring.

Mordan struck the Astronomer’s Guild like a meteor.

A fireball of blinding white plasma exploded from the point of impact, instantly enveloping the town and shaking the valley. The wind and heat of the blast shot up and over the hillsides, leveling trees, hitting Darilos and the others with a massive wall of force that threw the others to the ground, temporarily deafening them with a grinding roar of destruction.

Darilos stood motionless. The heat radiated raw, magical energy. It swept through him, energized him, sent his senses into rapture. He laughed openly into the blast, feeling the heat sting the back of his throat. It was the most thrilling sensation he had felt in millennia.

The valley below was a hellfire. Smoke and dust exploded in a billowing cloud half a mile into the clear sky. Flames raged up hillsides in infernal tempests. The mages’ Shield spell had had no effect against such powerful magic, as the dragon’s spell had been “renegade magic” — an incantation of immense power, forbidden by the Council of Mages. Bombard, Mordan had called this one, in his last message.

Darilos and the others were just out of range of the fires on their distant hilltop. The men were now struggling to their feet.

“Gods!” Agnon gasped. “Did he have to destroy the entire valley?”

Darilos turned and leered at the Apostle. “My dear mage, what do you expect when you hire a dragon as mercenary?”

He glanced at the Key of Otemus, still strapped to the chest. “Now, Apostle, my payment please.”

Hardly taking his eyes off the destruction, Agnon gave a nod and gestured to one of his Disciples, who unstrapped the sword from the chest and carried it to the Apostle. Agnon unceremoniously handed it over to Darilos.

Darilos held it up, marveling at the lightness of the metal and the poetic nature of the valley’s flames playing on the long, silvery, reflective blade.

The Apostle raised an eyebrow. “I don’t understand the significance of this weapon to you, Outlander. It is of valuable metal, some platinum alloy, but much of the treasure we brought is of greater value and power. It is magical only in its ability to remain sharp and untarnished.”

Darilos stabbed the blade into the ground before him. “Its value to me is of no concern to you.” He looked back at the destruction and pointed. “Behold!”

Seeming beyond possibility, a giant figure rose from the impact crater. Shadowy and warped to Darilos’ sight by the heat and distance, Mordan winged up and over the smoke and dust.

“Your mercenary comes for his payment,” Darilos proclaimed to Agnon.

The Apostle waved his Disciples away from the great chest. But Mordan was in no hurry. The soot-covered dragon orbited the valley a couple times before closing in on their hilltop. The dragon was visibly exhausted, but Darilos knew he was likely still powerful enough to give a good fight.

When the Emerald Dragon had flown near enough, Darilos hailed him and gestured at the chest. “Mordan, your payment is here.”

But Mordan maintained a distance, circling the hillside. “We feel your energies now, Outlander.” He spoke in Taxin, accented with the speech of the Northlands. “Or rather, the lack of them. You are not as you appear.” He flew a bit closer and hovered in place for a moment, an act not easily performed for a dragon of his size, sending gusts from his wings. Darilos waited, amused at the game. Then Mordan’s good eye opened wide with recognition. “Yes! We know you now! It has been a long time. Shall We state your true nature to your friends, so that they may fear you? Or perhaps We should order you to do Our bidding, Footman?”

Darilos frowned. The dragon would go and ruin a good day, wouldn’t he? “I would consider it a breach of contract, and gladly melt down the chest and your payment with a word. Go now with your reward and trouble me no longer.”

Mordan stopped hovering and flew backward. “That sword before you – the Key of Otemus – yes, We recognize it. Is this your feeble payment as their middleman? You know it’s useless to you. You cannot wield it, and the lock is long lost.”

“It is of no concern to you, dragon.”

Quickly gathering speed, Mordan circled the hilltop and gained altitude. “Hmm. Perhaps you have found that lock, then? Very well,” he shouted. “We shall leave you to your fate and whatever fool’s errand you embark on with that artifact.”

Mordan shouted a spell. An explosion heaved up the hilltop, throwing the Disciples off their feet again in a shower of soil and rock – propelling the Key of Otemus high into the air. Darilos stumbled sideways, trying to catch himself. Mordan caught the Key midair and stabbed its blade through Darilos’ torso, impaling him and throwing him to the ground. Darilos let out a bestial roar of pain, clutching at the weapon and arching his back.

In moments the dragon was gone, carrying the massive chest with his forefeet and disappearing, laughing, into the northern sky.

Apostle Agnon crawled over to Darilos. “Outlander!” he yelled.

Darilos growled, sitting upright. He coughed out a strained chuckle as he watched the dragon’s retreat. “Cheeky bastard,” he muttered. Mordan had known perfectly well that the blade wouldn’t kill him. Wrapping a hand around the handle of the Key, he yanked the sword out of himself, emitting an inhuman bellow.

Agnon stood and stumbled back, drawing in a harsh breath. “By the three gods!”

Darilos winced as the bloodless wound closed. It’s pathetic how fragile human bodies are. Of all the forms I could have chosen! He stood and stabbed the Key of Otemus into the ground once more.

Agnon gave Darilos a sidelong look, eyes wide, shaking his head. “How did you survive that wound? Outlander, why did the Emerald Dragon call you ‘Footman?’ Why would he think you should do his bidding, but then deal you what should have been a mortal blow?” He backed away from Darilos. “What are you?”

Darilos ignored him, scratching his chest through the cut robe where the wound had been. He looked down upon the burning valley and the crater at its heart. Nothing more than rubble remained of the institution of magic that had been the “Astronomer’s Guild.” Magic was illegal in Taxia, and yet this secret society and its annexes in other towns had its tendrils in every facet of this region, right up to the throne of Taxia’s king. The Brotherhood of Blood had paid for a major political coup that would shake this part of the world, and, they thought, take care of a potentially powerful enemy of the Triumvirate. But using the Nexus, Darilos had seen enough of the future to know that the Guild could have gone either way in this fight.

There can be no neutrality in battles between the gods.

Darilos didn’t care about all that. A minor loss for a greater gain. His mission was to find the Convergence, a mysterious object of such incredible power that its potential worried the Outer Gods. The mages of the great Towers of Magic would investigate the destruction of Caranamere, and Darilos would use them to retrieve this powerful artifact. Whatever form this Convergence took, it would be the focal point for control of the world’s magic. The Outer Gods knew it. That was why he was here. That was why he had traveled to the material world. But does the Triumvirate know about the Convergence? he wondered. The Key of Otemus seemed to mean nothing to the Brotherhood, so perhaps the Triumvirate they served didn’t yet know.

And another notion remained at the forefront of his thoughts as he watched the conflagration spread up the mountainsides. A notion that kept him from rest, no matter where he had gone in the past few years.

The woman. That human mage he had seen at the battle of the Tower of Light riding astride a griffin, at battle with the elves. She was the One who was always at the Nexus of futures in the Ether. She was the one he had foreseen before coming to this world, and then again, in person for a brief moment. The one named Torra Com Gidel. So rich in energy was she that it filled his senses just being near her for that brief moment. She would be the one he needed to implement his plan.

According to the scant information he could find about her, the burning valley below had been where she had been raised and learned the ways of magic. That certainly was no coincidence.

The Tower of Light would surely send the woman with their Expeditionary Mages. And he would be with her, at last.

Darilos trembled at the thought.

“Answer me, Outlander!” Apostle Agnon shouted. “What are you?”

Darilos shook off his thoughts. He had almost forgotten about the Brotherhood. “Something more formidable than the Emerald Dragon.”

He looked again at the destruction below. “It is time for you and your Disciples to leave,” Darilos continued, his voice measured. “Our business is finished. Do not record it. Discuss it with no one. If you should see me again, do not reveal my role in this, no matter what the circumstances.” He turned to look at the Apostle and narrowed his eyes. “And do not stand in my way. Defy my demands and in your last moments you will find out exactly what I am.”

The Apostle scowled, but replied, “Whatever that sword may mean to you, you are still a hero to the Triumvirate. May the Triumvirate bless you for your assistance in their cause. But do not stand in our way, either!” He raised a bloody hand in salute, spared another look of horror at the destruction unleashed in the valley below them, then turned and fled down the hillside with his Disciples.

Darilos gazed again on the flaming valley and mused on the contrast of the burning hell below against the blue heaven of the skies above. It was a fitting symbol for his methods, using the Triumvirate’s followers to achieve the goals of the Outer Gods. Yet another compromise in a world of compromises.

Darilos smiled. What was he?If only the Apostle knew! He looked back to make sure they had gone.

In exaltation of his true identity, Darilos dropped the masquerade. His human body disintegrated into ash. From its shell burst the giant, serpentine body of a demon. Sapphirine skin. Blue flames dancing. Slim amber wings jutting out like dagger blades. Talons that he held out to clack in the air in front of his long, rippled muzzle. He stretched to his full height, joints and tendons popping, muscles shaking. Enraptured, he roared into the burning valley like the thunder of its destruction. He was once again his true self ….

He was Azartial.

Demon dragon.

Footman of the Ether.

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