The Jesters
Thirteen months, more like er is,” said the dwarf from the edge of the rotunda, smiling wickedly through his unkempt beard. “Dead as stone er is!”
Caelith slowly stood up, facing the dwarf. Jorgan’s head swung around, his eyes fixed on the dwarf. Lucian took a careful step, his hand reaching behind him to push Eryn back. In the light streaming from the bronze globe, they all watched the dwarf where he stood in front of the enormous statue of Ekteia, a satisfied smile playing across his tight lips.
The dwarf reached up and slowly unwound the bandages covering his eyes. He tossed the cloth aside, revealing startling red eyes.
“Who are you?” Caelith asked slowly, barely daring to breathe.
The dwarf shrugged, grinning through his widely spaced teeth. When he spoke, the voice was still low and gruff but all trace of the dwarf’s strange speech was gone. “A traveler—a wanderer—a collector of this and that. Mostly, I like to watch the great play; to see the struggles of man on the mortal stage. You do struggle so!”
Jorgan glanced at Caelith, his face turned to a frown. “What is the meaning of this?”
Caelith took in a careful breath. “It would seem that we have been following a dwarf that has been dead for over a year. This”—he gestured down at the remains next to the altar—“is all that is left of Cephas Hadras, our father’s closest friend. The question is: if Cephas is dead, who is this dwarf that has come all this way with us?”
Jorgan turned back toward the mysterious dwarf and took a menacing step forward. “You brought us here! You were the one who came to us! What do you mean by this?”
“Jorgan Arvad, Inquis Requi of the Pir Drakonis, I have come to make you more famous and more powerful than you could ever imagine,” the dwarf replied smoothly. “It was I that presented this plan to the Pentach of your orders. It was so perfect a solution for us both. Of course, they, too, were deceived; they thought I was just the foolish old dwarf of Galen’s long acquaintance, bartering for the help of the Pir on behalf of my friend, but it is of no consequence. Once they discover that we have succeeded, these little details will be forgotten and forgiven.”
Caelith glanced at Jorgan. “You knew about this? You were in league with this creature?”
“No . . . I mean,” Jorgan stammered. “Yes! I knew . . . He came to the Pentach, claiming to know how we might end the war. He said he had found Calsandria—knew the way—and could lead this sinful pestilence out of our lands. He said he had proof that the Pir were the heirs to the Deep Magic and came to us instead of Galen so that we could help the Soulless learn the truth. The Pentach believed that the mystics could be saved if they were brought to an understanding of the truth of Vasska; that they would renounce their stolen powers back to the proper province of the Pir—”
The dwarf’s mocking laughter shook the hall. “Is that what they told you?”
The titans crested the riverbank, shining brightly in the late evening light as they strode toward the walls of the city. They were gruesome apparitions—skeletal remains of a glorious past—yet their power was seductive, their supremacy unquestioned by those who drove them across the landscape. Their strides shook the ground beneath them, reverberating against the walls of the city, shaking a cloud of dust loose from their centuries old hold.
The ogres answered with their own shouts. This was the culminating moment for every ogre of Og; a time of prophecy and destiny fulfilled. As they had practiced once every twenty-four days* since before living memory, each ogre took his place. Men, women, and children all moved to their appointed locations. Some stood on the walls next to the boulders piled there for this very occasion. Some took up their positions behind the city gate, anxiously gripping huge clubs. Still others took positions near the towers set at intervals along the outer wall. For many, the reason behind their location was a mystery, but they believed it would be made known to them when the time came. From each of them, however, came a common hymn: a low and rumbling song of unabashed joy that the gods should call on them in their time to fulfill the destiny of the ogres. Old ogres wept for joy to see this day. Young ogres strained within their ranks outside the walls, anxious to find their destiny in a righteous war that would secure an honored place for them among their ancestors. The aftermath of the battle was of no thought: the ogres had lived for this moment, existed for this moment, and now were enraptured by its power.
Death would be welcome and glorious.
Oguk moved among them quickly, his hooked blade gleaming in the sun. His heart was nearly bursting with pride in his warriors and his people. They had trained for generations for this day, and now that it had come, he knew he had done all he could to ready them. He faced his destiny with a clear conscience.
Oguk moved out onto the plain where all the ranks of his warriors could see him. He turned, standing alone as he faced the city and its legions. A tear formed in his eye at the sight of the banners flying from the city walls, his nation standing with one resolve before him. The Titan-Blakats were fast approaching, he knew, but this was the way of the Og. He swung his hooked blade over his head six times and then brought its massive pommel down against the ground. The army cheered, its sound echoing off the distant mountains. Then he laid down his weapon and began beating the ground before him with a slow, rhythmic pounding of his massive fist. Before him, the massive host of his nation’s warriors each set aside their own weapons and began a synchronous pounding of the ground with him. Soon the sound rolled like waves of thunder across the plain, the warriors shouting with their battle rage and building to a frenzy.
It was in that moment that Oguk looked up and saw a wondrous sight. Beyond his armies, beyond the towering outer wall of the city and its banners, beyond the ring of the city, Oguk saw the Trove itself begin to rise, its towers climbing high over the surrounding structures.
“The titans are returning,” he stammered in wide-eyed wonder. “It is—a sign!”
He snatched up the blade from the ground at once, turned, and with a terrible yell charged across the plain toward his destiny.
As one, all of his warriors charged after him.
The power of the Titan-Whitat has been awakened, Oguk knew, and nothing could stop them now.
Aislynn held the handles with both hands, pulling with all her might, but the door remained steadfastly shut.
“Now what do we do?” Valthesh asked.
“Something’s holding the doors shut,” Aislynn said in frustration. “There’s no latch—nothing barring it; there is no apparent reason why it should not just open.”
“The Sharaj,” Valthesh said. “The magic bars our way.”
“Then perhaps the Sharaj can provide us a way in,” Aislynn said.
“However we do it, we may be too late,” Gosrivar said anxiously. “The boats have reached the docks. They’ll be here soon.”
“You’re too late,” the dwarf said easily.
Caelith slowly backed until he bumped into the altar.
“But don’t think I’m not grateful to you. You see, you, Caelith, are the instrument by which all your people have been doomed. What a part you have played, one that will be held in horror and disdain through the ages! You are the means by which your future and the future of your people come to a fitting and rightful end. You mystics are so predictable. A little nudge, toss some lies about the greatness of their glorious past with a little hope of some false future, and they’ll abandon their homes, their lives—maybe even their families—just to lay their responsibility, guilt, and blame at the feet of some convenient idea of a god. Puppets on my stage, Caelith! That’s all you’ve ever been.”
Caelith looked at Eryn. She turned her face away from him, her head bowed. Caelith knew that she had never believed in the gods but until that moment he had not realized she had still hoped they were, somehow, there anyway.
“Margrave,” the dwarf called out.
The Loremaster peeked from behind the statue of Hrea.
“You didn’t tell them about how the tragic citizens of Segathlas died?” the dwarf continued.
Margrave stepped carefully down into the forum. “Well, there didn’t seem to be time, and right now may not be the appropriate moment to perform the—”
“How careless of him,” the dwarf interrupted. “You see, in the last days of the Empire of Rhamas, Segathlas was attacked by all five of the Dragonkings at once. The valley provided no easy means of escape; Lucian was right about that—a lovely place for a trap. Those that escaped the city itself were easily hunted down and, well, let’s just say that not a single child was burdened with the memory of their pain for very long. One of my better productions; one that certainly demands an encore.”
Caelith was horrified. “You wanted me to lead them—”
“Ah,” the dwarf sighed. “But you already have. As we stand here—indeed, as we have for many days been winding our way under the mountains on your ‘noble quest,’ all the clans have been gathering—journeying willingly, draining the lands of the Dragonkings like a gathering cyst.”
“I never gave the order!” Caelith snapped at the high priest.
“Whether you did or not is irrelevant,” the dwarf sneered. “They think that you did.”
“But they don’t know the way.”
“Did you think your father would be so trusting, even of Berkita?” the dwarf scoffed. “He searched for you in the dream and I helped him find you—at least as far as Segathlas.”
The dwarf leaned his shoulder forward.
Caelith saw at once the long white scar.
“The dream!” Caelith seethed. “You convinced them I had found Calsandria.”
“But you have found it.” The dwarf grinned. “Just not in the place they think you found it.”
Caelith’s eyes flashed over to Jorgan. “It’s murder, Jorgan. Worse, it’s genocide. I know what you think of me—what you think of all of us—but you must stop this!”
“Why should he stop it?” the dwarf observed gleefully. “He is about to become the greatest hero the Pir have ever known; Jorgan, the humble Inquisitas who on his own ended the War of Scales and brought the power of the mystics home to the Pir. More than that, he shall be the prophet who brought the ancient gods back to humanity.”
Jorgan stood quietly gazing at the dwarf.
“The blood of thousands,” Caelith rasped through clenched teeth, “just for your ambition?”
“No,” Jorgan answered carefully. “To redeem my mother’s soul! It is the word of Vasska to me!”
“You are quite remarkable, Caelith.” The dwarf leaned back against the statue of the monstrous Ekteia, folding his arms across his barrel chest. “Not only do you put all the clans in our power, but actually manage to find the City of the Gods. How fitting and ironic that you should give this knowledge to the Pir. I am sure they shall guard it well.”
“You mean bury it . . .”
The dwarf shrugged under his smile.
“So what now?” Caelith asked with finality.
“Oh, you want to know how it turns out? One never gives away the end of a performance. One final irony for my amusement. I have an old debt to repay,” the dwarf said easily. “She’ll be here soon enough. Even Margrave would agree that it is a fitting end to a sad tale. Satinka, Dragonqueen of Ost Batar, flies over the peaks of the Paulis even as we speak. It was she, after all, that your father offended on the Election Fields. She wishes her vengeance personally.”
“By the gods!” Caelith yelled at the smiling dwarf. “Who are you?”
They heard the call.
They brought their children out of cellars and caves, blinking into the light of day. Wives gathered up all they could, shedding tears as they closed the doors on their homes for the last time. Husbands managed whatever conveyance they could find for their meager treasures and their food supplies, using their own backs when nothing else was available. Fathers spoke of hope and mothers spoke of faith. Their faces were dark and light, wide and narrow, long and round, but they heard the call across the Five Domains. The word was whispered like lightning—Calsandria! The City of the Gods!—and in ones and twos, threes and fours, they stepped away from the tormented life of their past for the hope of a better future.
Some were too exuberant in their anticipation, revealing themselves and calling down the wrath of their neighbors and the local Pir monks despite the assurances of the Pentach. This was especially the case in Palathia, where Clan Nikau’s more militant mystics were quite forceful in their expression. Instances of looting of local shops and markets were numerous in Maranth where the Black Guard of Jekard was called out to restore order and rout the Nikau mystics from their city. Open warfare erupted in the central market as the local mystics stole food for their journey, justified, they believed, because of their long oppression. The dead were mounting on both sides of the conflict, potentially bringing the direct and terrible intervention of the Dragonking Jekard himself, until Uruh Nikau intervened and convinced the mystics to abandon the city more quietly. Similar clashes to a smaller degree took place in Urmakand, Ost Batar, and Pantaris as the leaders of the Circle drew their clans to them and began what they soon came to call the Trail of Hymns. For as they walked on their journey, they sang songs of long ago that suddenly seemed more alive and real than ever before.
The mystics had for ages been individual tears scattered across the land, hidden in the shadows of brighter lives. Now they gathered; one tear became two, two joined with four, and soon small caravans, rivulets of the hopeful, were winding their way across plains and hills, across mountains and grasslands, through forests and across deserts. Their rivulets joined others; streams became rivers; and rivers became a torrent of people, making their way down the Election Roads that for centuries had carried their kindred souls to their doom.
Behind them lay the Dragonkings and their Five Domains. Their cities were oddly quieter and less crowded. The fear of the mystics lifted from the faithful Pir like an annoying note that had played so long that it was no longer heard until it was gone. Thus the Pir rejoiced, for their Dragonkings promised them peace at last now that the land was rid of this pestilence.
So, far from their homes, the mystics gathered; Clans Mistal, Myyrdin, and Caedon out of the north and western lands to the Naraganth Basin and Clans Harn and Nikau out of the east to the Vestron Marches. Then, when all were gathered, they moved once more, their footsteps shaking the stones of the ancient Imperial Road beneath their feet as they moved with one voice and one hope toward the Aramun Vale.
Oguk’s call was answered.
Ogres thundered across the plain, charging directly toward the approaching titans. Oguk could feel the pounding of the earth behind him, hear their roar. He did not know if Titan-Blakat could bleed but he would soon find out. The ancient lore had been ingrained in the ogres from before time; each ogre child knew the weapons of the Og and the manner of their use against the Titan-Blakat. To demonstrate these skills was a right of passage for the Og; the moment a child became an adult. Never before, however, had they ever been tested in combat, for the Og were, otherwise, a peaceful and quiet nation.
We shall see, Oguk thought, how well the elders taught us.
The Titan-Blakat before him seemed to hesitate. Where they had been steadily advancing on the city before, several of them had stopped and were moving about in confusion. One large Titan-Blakat, however, moved among them, hitting the reluctant titans with its massive metal hand and pushing each one forward.
They are afraid, Oguk thought as a smile creased his face, his huge feet pounding the ground.
He could see these Blakat more clearly now. They were men of metal, standing three to five times his own height. They were hideous apparitions, deformed and unnatural. Their metal flesh was stripped in places from their arms or legs. The sky beyond could be seen through gaping holes in many of their chests. But in that moment, Oguk also knew clarity, for the ancient teachings that had seemed so strange suddenly made sense to him. He knew how to attack these monsters and bring them down.
Oguk reached the advancing line of his towering, creaking enemy. The first titan was missing its head, but this did not impair it from seeing the ogre leader and quickly shifting its foot to step on him. Oguk suddenly threw himself sideways, rolling over his left shoulder and back on his feet just as the huge metal foot slammed against the ground. He leaped at once, throwing his massive bulk with deceptive ease up onto the back of the Titan-Blakat’s right heel, catching his hooked blade in the hoses and cables that dangled from the back of the creature’s legs.
The titan raised its foot again as it stepped, carrying Oguk skyward. The air rushed about him, filling him with the thrill of battle. He grasped the back of a Blakat leg plate with his free hand and scrambled to find some purchase for his footing. The titan continued its advance, nearly jarring the ogre loose as it smashed against the ground, but Oguk held fast. The leg drew back and then moved forward just as the forward line of ogres rushed into it. Oguk watched as no fewer than fifteen of his warriors were kicked into the air, flying backward over the ranks, flailing through the air. The titan’s foot came down into the charging ogre line, crushing five more under its tread.
Oguk pulled his blade free and began sawing on the cables at the back of the titan’s heel. He was aware of ogres around him that were trying to avoid the titans’ deadly feet while attacking them at the same time. Two other ogres had managed to cling to the creature’s left foot and were assaulting that heel as well. Oguk barely heard the screams and shouts of his army about him, his attention focused on severing the cables and bringing the beast to the ground.
The titan reeled sideways, nearly throwing Oguk from his precarious hold. The fire-warriors had reached the line. Fist-sized globes of glass arched over the ogres, flung by the fire-warriors from behind the line. They crashed against the titan’s skin, shattering. The white phosphorus mixture within touched the air and burst at once into searing white flame that clung to the titan where it hit. Thick smoke billowed out of Oguk’s titan, the firebombs having ignited something else within the creature.
Oguk feverishly sawed on the cables. The ground beneath the monster was crimson and slick with the blood of his warriors. The cables were fraying, their strands splintering under the edge of Oguk’s sword. He could see more of his ogres suddenly tossed into the sky, the smell of burning and blood filling his nostrils but he kept cutting.
Suddenly, the cable snapped. The release of the tension drew the jagged edge of the frayed steel with tremendous force across Oguk’s wide chest, slashing a deep cut into his muscular flesh. Oguk grimaced through the pain, but the leg kicked suddenly backward and he lost his grip. For a moment he felt the sensation of floating as he spun, but then the ground came up to greet him most painfully.
Oguk pushed himself up, his hands feeling the ground as warm mud. His army ran about him but towering above their heads was the titan. It staggered, dancing a strange step as smoke poured from the neck of its missing head. Then it fell backward. The ogre’s cries were renewed and victorious as they swarmed over the fallen enemy.
Oguk struggled to his feet. The battle raged, but the Emperor of Og could see that the remaining titans were advancing on the city.
For the first time, Oguk wondered what might happen after the battle was lost.
“They’re coming,” Obadon called over the shrieks of the damned Kyree. He stood at the top of the steps leading to the Hall of Conquest, looking down between the buildings. “It’s Shaeonyn, and the Black Guard is with her. It looks like Bachas and his crew are waiting on the docks.”
“You cannot kill the Black Guard,” Aislynn said flatly. “They are already dead.”
“What about Djukan?” Aislynn asked. “Where are the Kyree?”
“I don’t see any of them,” Obadon said, shaking his head.
“Shaeonyn may have betrayed them, too,” Gosrivar said, shaking his head slowly. “They were undoubtedly needed to find this harbor. They may still be prisoners on board the ship—or dead depending upon Shaeonyn’s whim.”
Valthesh turned at once to face Aislynn, determination and resolve in her eyes. “Is this the center of the nightmare? Are you sure we’ve found it?”
“Yes,” Aislynn replied. “This is it—but we’ve circled this building twice. We can’t get in and Shaeonyn will be here with the guardians in minutes!”
“By the gods,” Caelith yelled. “Who are you?”
“Do you really want to know?” the dwarf said, his red eyes bright as he started to advance across the floor. “I’m everything you really came to find, Caelith; everything you feared. But only the dead truly understand, you know. Here, let me help you.”
“Stand back!” Caelith shouted.
“Or you’ll what?” the dwarf replied easily. “Hit me with your sword? Oh, I see it’s missing now, isn’t it? How unprepared of you.”
Caelith reached for his sword but found the scabbard mysteriously empty.
The dwarf grinned. “It has been so long since I have had the chance to kill with my own hands, to experience the pain and the gloriously terrifying surprise so intimately. It’s a rather dull ending, I’ll admit—but one that is deeply satisfying!”
Caelith needed a weapon; there was only one at hand. He reached over, turned the bronze globe on its pedestal and shone the brilliant light of the Pillar of the Sky directly into the dwarf’s unbound eyes.
Aislynn blinked, the Deep Magic washing over her. The domed building became transparent to her eyes in a moment and she saw beyond its walls the wingless man stumbling, holding something heavy in his arms. The vision passed in a moment.
A terrible thunderclap rang out across the nightmarish city, its deafening noise painful to the ears of the Fae. In that instant, the great waves of blue light ceased radiating from the Hall of Conquest and the terrible cries of the city faded beneath the quiet howling of the wind.
Behind them, the doors to the Hall of Conquest slowly swung out toward them.
“Come on!” Aislynn called out over the wind. She turned at once, her worn slippers sliding slightly on the wet stones of the threshold as she plunged headlong into the darkness within the Hall of Conquest.
Thux could feel himself falling but, he told himself, everything else seemed to be falling, too. It might have led to an interesting observation about how things moving relative to each other may not actually be moving at all, except a jarring crash knocked Thux completely out of the throne and sent him rolling across the floor.
Everything was quiet once again. Aside from the considerable dust hanging in the air, one might think that nothing had happened at all.
Thux picked himself up and reminded himself that it was all part of the hard life of a wizard. You try stuff, if it works you get rich; if it doesn’t, then it might kill you or it might not, in which case you get to try again. If he was going to save the city, keep his job, his wife, and his life, he had to figure out how to help the city defend itself.
He staggered over, still a bit disoriented from the fall, and seated himself on the throne. More than anything, he felt the need to sleep. “I wish I had some chains to hold me down,” he thought but then laughed at the extravagance that would have represented. “Now, let’s see—where was I?”
Thux examined the bronze globe and found the symbol he had used before.
He pressed it.
No lights.
No sound.
Nothing.
“I broke it?” Thux asked himself sadly just before he lost consciousness.