Rathma
Silus led them to the door of his shop, and Rathma could feel the heat spilling off of a fire inside. He peered around the old Athrani, surprised to see that the ever-present curtain had been drawn back to reveal a much larger shop than he had imagined. Past the tables and shelves filled with every conceivable remedy was a vast, empty space whose purpose was unclear, but it was one that Rathma could guess.
“Go on in,” Silus said as he waved them inside. “Everything is ready.”
There was still the smell of pine that made Rathma crinkle his nose, but it was overtaken by the smoky smell of ash and flame—and the feeling of power. This particular power was one that he had known since boyhood, yet it was somehow different: like seeing the face of an old friend many years later, knowing that it had changed, but still recognizing it on the surface. A chill ran through his body as he stepped into the shop just behind Thornton. It was only to be the two of them tonight: Vessel and Anchor.
Thornton looked back at him, his swirling brown eyes deep with seriousness and concern. “Are you sure you’re ready?” he asked.
It didn’t matter, Rathma knew, but he wasn’t going to tell Thornton that. “Yes,” he said with a grim nod. “I was born for this.”
The answer seemed to satisfy the blacksmith, who gave him a small, encouraging smile, then turned and continued farther inside.
Rathma let the tingle of power flow over him as he welcomed back his old friend, content in the knowledge that he would be surrendering himself to it completely soon enough.
Silus led the two of them back past the curtain, which had been parted down the middle and tied back with gold-colored rope as thick as a man’s forearm. The rear of the shop, heretofore concealed by the curtain, dropped downward to reveal a great room that had been hollowed out of the earth itself, stone floors abruptly replacing the wooden ones of the front of the shop. The top of a ladder peeked over the edge of the floor, and Silus surprised them by deftly maneuvering his way down it. Rathma still had trouble reconciling the man’s blindness.
Standing at the top of the ladder and looking down, Rathma could see that the room carved out below him was larger than he’d initially guessed. It looked like it was being used as a storage facility, or at least part of it was, as the room itself was massive.
Climbing down the ladder, easily twenty feet to the bottom, Rathma finally got a look at the cavernous space around him that was comprised of little more than cold stone. There were shelves with wooden crates full of Holder knows what, but those only went back a few rows into the otherwise empty room. Behind them was a trail of red wax candles, two of them every few feet, providing a path to the back—where, illuminated only by the candlelight, stood the figure of Silus with his arms outstretched.
The healer was facing the rear of the room that felt more like a cave, and Rathma noticed something painted on the wall before them. As he approached, it became apparent what it was: a large mural, paint still fresh, of the Traveler, Lash’kun Yho.
Rathma knew it was the Traveler because of how the god was described in the legends his people told; and once again he found himself questioning the old Athrani’s blindness, as the figure painted on the wall resembled Rathma almost to a tee. He had long red hair, with the sun-darkened skin that the tribes were known for. He was garbed in a dark cloak, resembling Rathma’s own, and was flanked by two smaller paintings: to his left, a wolf; to his right, a skull.
“At least there’s no mistaking who we are calling,” Rathma muttered.
“There must not be,” Silus said without turning to face him. “Thornton, the Hammer.” He pointed to his right, to a gray stone pillar that rose only a few feet high, with a smooth, flat top. “Place it handle-up.”
Thornton nodded, placing the black head of the hammer atop the pedestal to let the white-ash handle point to the ceiling of the great room.
“And Rathma,” Silus said, pointing to a spot directly in front of the mural, “stand here.”
Rathma complied, feeling the tug of power more strongly than he could ever recall.
If the Traveler knew he was being called, he certainly showed it as Rathma moved into place.
Silus began a chant the words of which Rathma did not immediately recognize—until he listened closer.
Lash’kun, Lash’kun, Lash’kun Yho
Dobrak mahn ihmantu cho
Mith te’kunde ah’man’o
Lash’kun, Lash’kun, Lash’kun Yho
Without warning, the room erupted with light as the candles behind and around them suddenly flared, burning away all other shadows save one—Rathma’s—which fell directly on the mural of the Traveler. Rathma felt the hair on his arms raise as a surge of power leapt through him.
The paint that made up the mural began to bubble, distorting the figure of the Traveler as his face began to droop, looking like flesh-colored tears running down the wall. Rathma felt his own body begin to heat up, and he suddenly found himself unable to move as he filled with power. To his right was the bright blue glow of Thornton’s hammer.
Silus continued his chant.
. . . Dobrak mahn ihmantu cho . . .
The blue glow from Thornton’s hammer intensified, leaping and engulfing Rathma.
. . . Mith te’kunde ah’man’o . . .
And a pain more intense than any he had ever known racked his entire body. He had the sensation of being pulled apart in every direction, as if his skin had decided to flee his bones. He opened his mouth to cry out in pain but found himself unable to. And, with a snap like a cord breaking, the world went black.
Thornton
Rathma collapsed in a heap after the blue light from the Hammer of the Worldforge engulfed him. But then, as if nothing had happened, he stood up. Stretching as though he had woken up from a long sleep, he turned to face Thornton.
“So,” he said with a twinkle in his red eyes, “I understand you are after the Shaper.”