Rise of the Fallen Read online

  Nük T’nyr clasped Kha’el’s shoulder in a show of respect. “My father was wrong to keep you as his third. You deserved to be his second.”

  “I am your second,” Kha’el said. “That is what he knew I would be.”

  Nük T’nyr looked to the Praefect. “Indeed,” he said. He turned his attention to the Alvs who filled the square. “Who among you speaks for you?” he asked in the language of the Alvish.

  Kha’el D’erth stepped forward when no one spoke and pointed to the Alvish woman with the baby. Nük T’nyr gave sign of agreement.

  Kha’el D’erth plucked them from the crowd, holding the woman with her baby in the palm of his hand. “Who among you speaks for you?” he repeated.

  “I will speak,” the Alvish woman said. “I am Queen Athania of Dobehen.”

  “Speak truth,” Kha’el D’erth said impatiently in the language of the Jurin people. “My king has shown great restraint and given great respect.”

  “I speak truth,” Queen Athania replied in the Jurin language, her gaze and voice steady even as she edged the child back.

  “Your king,” Kha’el D’erth said impatiently. “Where is he?”

  “Do you seek the king of kings or my king?” the queen asked.

  Kha’el D’erth felt closed in as Nük T’nyr and the Praefect pressed forward. “We seek your husband, King of Dobehen.”

  “You seek one who will not be found.”

  Nük T’nyr studied the Alvish queen, seeing a calm akin to one he found in battle. “Kurhri mo’rren,” he told her.

  “To blessed death,” the queen replied.

  “A slow death for him,” Kha’el heard the Praefect say in a low voice. “Very slow and very painful.”

  And for Kha’el, that was the end of it. The Praefect took the queen and her child away, and he never saw either again.

  His king turned to regard him and then the battle-weary soldiers who encircled the square and waited in long files running down the streets.

  “Today we have the first victory on our road to rising again,” the king said. “Today is the Day of the Reckoning. Our Day of the Atonement, though distant, will come. On that day we will know freedom as a people.”

  Battle weary and wounded, the soldiers still raised their voices and their swords, their shouts reaching out to the highlands many leagues distant and their boots shaking the earth.

  PART I

  KARTHOLD

  The Cycle 11226

  Drakón Standard

  The ageless rose up, tall as mountains

  And breathed fire across the hundred worlds.

  —Translated from the Secti Monter Drakón, or Book of the Dragons

  CHAPTER ONE

  All across the dark, windswept lands, a million slaves from a hundred broken worlds and their slavered beasts toiled in and about the pits created by their excavations, unearthing and reclaiming relics of a forgotten age for the never-seen gods of their age. The overlords kept watch from high above, looking down on the labor. Now and again, as the tocks and tolls passed, a cry of discovery would issue forth. Then those closest to the caller would rush in by the hundreds and thousands, toiling as one until the new artifact was unearthed and dragged away by ropes and mute beasts.

  Sometimes, after an unearthing, an overlord would grant reward to all laborers in the sector, allowing them to pause in their work and partake of liquid bread spread freely at the overlord’s beckoning, offered as if a gift. Rastín was one of the few who never took the offered drink, relying instead on a pouch of water and hard black biscuits he secreted away and packed each morning before the day’s labors began.

  After an unearthing an overlord would always grant reward to the laborer who made the discovery, descending from the heavens on his platform until he was eight or nine spans from the ground, stepping down living stairs and across a living carpet formed by the workers until he stood before the recipient of his gift. He would then raise his staff of office to the heavens while calling out to the ageless gods, and then he would touch the tip of his staff to the top of the recipient’s head. In the end, the recipient would thank and bless the overlord even as lightning flashed from the heavens and ripped him from the fields and this life.

  Such an end was said to be a blessing, and every worker in every corner of the dark land was expected to pay tribute to it by crying out to the heavens and begging for such glory for themselves. Even the dimwitted beasts would join in, though they had no tongues and could only make guttural croonings. Rastín did not believe such an end brought glory, however, finding only the futility and folly of it. So while others cried with their blessings to the ageless, he exclaimed muddled curses, secretly damning the ageless with every foul word of every foul language he had learned in his short life.

  By evenfall this day, Rastín had cursed the ageless an unprecedented seventeen times, and there was palpable tension in the air as he joined the lines before the thousand-fold gates to return to the realm of the overlords. A daring few whispered of the day’s many unearthings and the expectations of a major discovery—possibly that of a cornerstone—soon. Such a find would make the discoverer one of the exalted, raising him or her from drudgery and postponing the blessed parting until such time as the ageless themselves willed the exalted from this life.

  Rastín had no desire to become an exalted, yet he could not help thinking about what such a future would mean for him and the companion he chose. It was the one true dream left to one who otherwise had no aspirations, no dreams, no escape save blessed death.

  Because his dig site was far from the thousand-fold gates, there were many ahead of him by the time he joined the lines. In the distance he could hear the night criers as the darkening skies and the disembarking masses emboldened the criers to emerge from their shrouded hiding places.

  The overlords hovered high above on their floating platforms, gathered in clusters. Their staffs of office, transformed into fiery whips with long sinewy tendrils, lashed out occasionally at the empty spaces between the illuminated lines and the deepening shadows. Rastín knew this without having to look back as he began to make his way forward through the lines. His youth and lineage ensured that he had only to touch a hand to the shoulder of anyone blocking his way to be allowed to pass, so in this way he made his way toward the front of his line.

  Reaching the gate platform, he stepped forward and made ready for the brief passage between this land and that of the overlords. A dense bunch of mute beasts moved before the gate, however, refusing to pass through or allow others to do so. Two guardians, one on either side of the gate, brought their weighted chains around and carved a swath through the gathered beasts. Yet this did not stop them from blocking Rastín’s passage until several other laborers moved ahead of him and went through the gate.

  Shaken by the incident but resolved to leave the dark land, Rastín stepped into the gate. Bone-chilling cold found him for an instant, and then just as suddenly he was walking through one of the colossal passageways that led through the massive fortifications surrounding the immortal city of the ageless.

  The cool, moist air in the corridor was invigorating after his long day. As he emerged from the corridor, open skies and mammoth towers greeted him. The way paths between the towers were crowded, the air paths no better as peoples and beasts of all manner abided in the city. He was excited about the prospect of speaking with his father and conferring with him about the possibility of yet another cornerstone find, and for this reason he made his way rapidly to the encampment of the people of Élvemere, his people.

  His family’s pavilion was in the farthest corner of the camp, its aging silk and cloth a reminder of a past lost to the mists of time. Looking at the tattered silk and cloth fluttering in the wind, he could not help mourning a time he had never known, for his father’s mind lived in this time.

  Alborn and Djerg, who stood guard outside the pavilion, stepped aside as he approached. He returned their gesture of respect with a kind word of greeting.
“Pritish,” he told them in the language of ceremony. It was a greeting of praise and honor and the guards returned it heartily, for in this place none were slaves or masters.

  King Enáthon Túrring was lying in his once-garish bed of ruined silks and satins with many bloated pillows to keep him upright. Rastín no longer noticed the ruin of his father’s body or the serpent magi who kept his father alive, even though little flesh remained under the blankets.

  He knew the ageless maintained his father because his father kept order, and without his father there would be chaos. He did not resent the serpent magi, but he knew their duties included keeping watch and reporting back to their masters.

  “Salus, salut,” he told his father, again using the language of ceremony. It was tradition, speaking to his father’s health and honor. After kissing the living side of his father’s face he knelt and bowed his head, waiting for his father to speak.

  “Dny, my son,” the old king said, the living side of his face suddenly showing color. “Sadly, you have only just missed your mother.”

  Still kneeling, Rastín Dnyarr Túrring looked up at his father. He said nothing of the fact that his mother had gone to the blessed land many cycles ago. Instead, he smiled and said, “I should have liked to have seen her. She would have been pleased at my discoveries this day.”

  “She would have been,” his father said turning his good eye to regard his son, his dead eye continuing to stare off into the distance. Then he muttered something about food and drink.

  Rastín knew the food and drink was for him, because his father rarely ate now. He stood, poured a glass of water from a silver pitcher. He drank deeply, and then ate the leftovers from his father’s discarded meal. The food quenched a hunger in him that he had not noticed until he started eating.

  While he ate, his father spoke of the flat, open grassland beyond his pavilion and the forest that was just beyond the line of sight. Though this place existed for them only in dream now, Rastín knew it well, for it was the land of his people and his father spoke of it often. “Your mother walks to the trees. She wants to speak to the ancient ones. Will you meet her before she returns?”

  “I will, father. I will take your stallion, Windrunner. I should like to speak with the ancient ones myself.”

  “Good, good. She will be so pleased to see you, and the two of you can talk. You know my time comes, I can sense it, and so it will be you who must lead our people. Do you honor the old ways? Do you sing the praises of your kin?”

  “I do, father. I honor always those in the blessed lands. I pray for them to protect and keep me on the path.”

  “This is good, my son. You will make a fine high king. The kings of all lands will swear fealty to you, and our people will regain our rightful place.”

  “On my honor, as I live and breathe, father, I will restore our family name.” As he said this, Rastín hid a tear that came to his eye, for the truth of those words was too close to his heart. And although this great sadness was fleeting, it was enough to interrupt his second consciousness—the self he kept hidden to all save his father’s second self.

  His fingers lost their grip on his father’s arm. The lost grip broke the connection. His father uttered a stray word—a single word, no more, no less, but it was an unexpected word for those who kept watch and thought they saw and heard all.

  Rastín pretended not to hear the word. Instead, he picked up the silver pitcher and filled a cup, then helped his father drink from the cup, careful not to raise the cup too quickly as his father could only drink from one side of his mouth. He dabbed the side of his father’s face with a cloth, and then returned to the affectedly proper speech to which the magi were accustomed. “Father, I should be going soon. Do you have a message to pass along to mother?”

  “I should like to go with you, my son,” his father replied, “but as I cannot—”

  Rastín’s second self heard no more of the other self’s conversation as he continued with his account of the dig. “Seventeen unearthings is unprecedented. The whisperers say a cornerstone is at hand.”

  “Indeed,” his father said, “the final one at last then.”

  “The last, are you sure?”

  “We are elf kind, High King of Élvemere. We see it, fully formed.”

  Rastín had not meant to offend his father. “What will come of it?”

  “It will open the path to a place not seen since the Firstborn walked and dreamed. A place both outside time and within it. In this place, you could live a lifetime, return to our place, and find that millennia have passed or that no time has passed at all. From this place, the ageless will rule over all living things for all time. I can see this as clearly as I’ve ever seen—”

  Rastín interrupted, speaking quickly while the vision was at its strongest, “What will become of us? What will become of our people?”

  “The ageless,” Túrring began to say, but further words became impossible as he gurgled and gasped for breath as blood bubbled up from his lungs.

  Rastín collapsed his thoughts and became one within himself. He picked up the churn bucket from the floor and put it under his father’s chin while leaning his father forward with his other hand. While his father coughed and sputtered, he said a silent prayer to his mother. “Protect and keep us,” he whispered, imagining her waiting for them both in the blessed land.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Outside his father’s pavilion, Rastín, son of the High King of Élvemere, received no extra comforts. He was treated with deference, but beyond this he was regarded no differently than any other of his kind. In the dark before dawn, he awoke with everyone else when the first toll sounded. He ate, readied himself for the long day, and went with the others when the second toll sounded.

  In the predawn twilight, the immortal city of the ageless was at its worst. Not only were the way paths and air paths overflowing with all manner of peoples and beasts, but also the great towers were alive— breathing fire, venting smoke and ash. At times, the ground beneath his feet rumbled and quaked as the towers rumbled and quaked. This brought with it the sounds of the damned, which surged forth over and over in howls and wailing.

  Rastín despised the ageless because of those sounds. Backbreaking labor was one thing, torture and damnation another. To him, the ageless were lower than the dumb beasts who worked the excavations.

  Suddenly, a stinging chain ripped apart the flesh of his shoulder, arousing him to conscious thoughts. He stared blankly at the gate guardian and quickly moved through the gate. Bitter cold and darkness followed.

  For an instant, in this place between the ancient city and the windswept plains of a distant land, Rastín found solace. In this darkness, no one or no thing could touch him. He was beyond everything and everyone. Here he lived for two heartbeats a day, reconciled his two selves, and became one with both for those instants. And in those instants, he knew all that both had seen and heard. The sting of leaving this place behind was no less than the sting of the chain, and it left emptiness within that nothing else filled.

  As he emerged from the thousand-fold gates into the dark land, he saw, a league or more distant, jagged mountains of purple stone. He marched with the others of his kind a hundred abreast toward these mountains and the dig site where he would spend the day laboring under blood-red skies—the same strange skies that had darkened the skin of his once fair people until it was a deep, lustrous silver.

  He arrived at the dig site, sweating but not tired. The forced march was oddly cleansing and renewing. In a way, it prepared him for the day’s labor. With pick and ax, he began to break the hard surface and dig. Mute beasts carried away rock and soil with ropes and carts. All the while, the overlords looked on from their floating platforms.

  Early in the day, he knew he was close to a find. This frightened him because he did not want to become one of the blessed. He did his best to work other areas of his excavation pit, but he could only delay for so long. By midday, he had dug down an additional five spans�
� more than half his height—in all areas of the pit save one. He was about to begin digging in this area when a cry of discovery came forth from the far side of the excavation site.

  Relieved, he heaved his pick and ax to his shoulder and raced with the others toward the caller, then worked with the others as one until a massive metallic shard was unearthed. Because this was the first discovery of the day, the regional overlord was both pleased and displeased as he stepped from his platform down the living stairs formed by the workers.

  Rastín and another formed the bottom step of the living stair, and it was here the overlord stood as he surveyed the find. Rastín dared not make a sound as he strained under the weight. He dared not look up, but he could not help the feeling of awe that swept through him.

  This was the closest he had ever been to one of the exalted. He seemed to be but a step away from the ageless gods that had subjugated his people. He could not hold back the flood of hatred that raced through him and yet felt humbled, powerless in the exalted’s presence.

  As the overlord stepped across a living carpet of Rastín’s people, Rastín breathed a sigh of relief. He turned his head to watch the overlord until the other stood before the worker who had made the find. Rastín was surprised to recognize Holsteb. He remembered that Holsteb had once been kindly toward him, so it angered him even more when the good man was forced to his knees to accept an unwelcome reward.

  Unwanted or not, the overlord touched the tip of his staff to Holsteb’s head and imparted the gift of the ageless. At the end, in the last moments as his flesh was torn and rent, Holsteb thanked and blessed the overlord and the ageless. Then lightning flashed from the heavens, and Holsteb was no more.

  Every worker and every beast in every corner of the dark land paid tribute to the blessing by crying out. Rastín wanted more than anything to stand and scream a curse against the ageless and damn them, but the overlord was close and getting closer as he walked back across the living carpet toward the platform. So instead, he cried out with a tribute, telling himself his tribute was to Holsteb and not to the blessed event.