David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“That end being saving the city from this prophet, Velixar,” Thren said. “Why do you fear him so? Does he command an army? Will he lay siege to its walls? What threat can he possibly present to our world that would leave you so terrified?”

Luther swallowed, and he almost lied. This was a truth known to a rare few, and telling a man like Thren Felhorn was a leap of faith so great, it was a stretch even for him. But in the end, he knew he had to trust his instincts. Thren could be one to bear the necessary burden, but only if he knew the truth in its entirety.

“Karak and Ashhur are not from this world,” Luther said. “They came from another, one they fled from out of failure. Humanity’s birth here, overseen by the elven Goddess, was an attempt at redemption that went predictably awry. The world they came from, one of thousands, is a dangerous place now … and it is behind Veldaren’s throne that the brother gods first stepped into our world. That place is a crack in a sheet of armor, a torn thread in a great tapestry, a doorway between worlds that the prophet must not be allowed access to at all costs.”

Thren’s blue eyes bored into him, filled with doubt. Luther knew he had to convince him, and he prayed the words would come to his tongue at the proper time.

“So, this prophet,” Thren said slowly, as if everything he’d heard was tumbling and clicking in his mind, a puzzle stubbornly coming together. “This … Velixar … seeks access to the throne. That is what you’re telling me?”

“It is,” Luther insisted. “He’s tried before, and he will soon try again. He cannot succeed. If he does, devastation will envelop the land, of a scope we have not seen since the Gods’ War ages ago. There are more gods than Karak and Ashhur, and Velixar would have them come into our world in an attempt to free Karak from his prison. Mankind will be decimated, and whatever freedom you think you know will vanish. The prophet would have all living men and women kneel before the Lion. Those who refuse will receive death. Do you understand, Thren? Why I’ve done all I’ve done? Why I have sacrificed everything to prevent the complete ruination of our civilization and the end of all free will?”

“You’re a madman,” Thren said.

“I’ve long thought the same of you … though I tend to use it as a term of respect.”

Luther reached into his robe, and from around his neck, he pulled out a slender amulet crafted of gold and with a roaring lion etched into its circular center. Thren tensed at the sight of it, sensing a trap, but then Luther tossed it onto the desk before him.

“It was a last resort,” he said. “I’ve tried convincing my order to turn against the prophet’s ideals, to realize they were a sickening distortion of the god we all loved. In return, I received accusations of heresy. A god cannot change, they tell me, even though our own doctrines have changed again and again. You must believe me, I’ve tried everything, all I know, but this world is stubborn, full of bleak hearts and wounded children. The tiles are all across Veldaren by now, but they’re nothing without this amulet. It’s the key, Thren, and I want you to have it. The fate of our world, I want it in your hands.”

Whatever anger and confusion Thren had shown was lost, now replaced with a look Luther recognized, oh, so well: exhaustion.

“Why me?” he asked. “I don’t know you, have never even heard of you. I’ve not once bent the knee to Karak. My connection to the priests in Veldaren is sparse and only when absolutely necessary. I want no part of the gods, no part of their war, their dogma and traditions.”

“Exactly,” said Luther. “You have always cherished your humanity above gods and kings, and not once have you hesitated at the thought of blood on your hands. Right now, I need someone like you. Someone who will have the courage to do what I cannot to protect our world.”

“This amulet,” Thren asked him, lifting it off the desk. “What does it do?”

“With a word, it activates the magic I’ve placed within the tiles,” Luther said.

Thren’s frown deepened.

“And what exactly will that magic do?”

This was it, the last piece of the puzzle. If Thren refused, there would be no other to take up the mantle. Taking in a deep breath, he pushed away his fear, his nervousness, and told him everything. As he spoke, he watched an awakening horror spread across the master thief’s face. When Luther finished, Thren had fallen perfectly still, and it seemed even his breathing had stopped.

“Do you understand now?” Luther asked him. “Why I trust you? Why I feel you are one of the few with the strength to bear such a burden?” He chuckled. “The gods help me, I know I could not. I am weak, and so I have remained here, hiding like a coward. It was only when I heard of Grayson Lightborn’s death that I knew you would come for me. You’ve brought me hope, Thren. Seize it. Declare to the world we will be the pawns of gods no longer.”

The pain in his hand was increasing, and he could see parts where it was darkening, congealing against the shining edge of the blade. He stared at the red and black, unable to meet Thren’s gaze.

“You’ve played me, my guild, my entire city as if you were a god,” Thren told him, and the sharpness of a blade pressed against his back. “You know I cannot let you live after that.”

Luther slowly nodded, and he took in a deep breath. This was it, a moment he’d long known was coming. Eternity approached, yet which god would want him? Ashhur, who he had preached against all his life? Or Karak, whom he now actively betrayed?

“Will you do it?” he asked. “If the gates fall, if the prophet’s army marches upon the castle, will you do it?”

Thren ripped out the dagger from his palm, and Luther choked down his pained cry. As warm blood spilled across his desk, seeping into the pages of the book before him, he felt water building in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” said Thren, but he put the amulet around his neck, and for Luther, that was sign enough.

“Do not fail me,” he said, and he heard his voice crack. “You need to be strong, or the whole world suffers. There’s good in what I’ve done, but unless you’re strong, it’ll all have been in vain.”

“Strong?” Thren said softly. “It is all I know. When my childhood died, Muzien left me with little else.”

The sword at his back pulled away, and he knew it prepared for a thrust. The cruelty of Luther’s plan, its sheer hopelessness, rushed through his mind. It burned him with guilt, and he loathed it, yet amid such thoughts came the words of a lost friend, and he spoke them aloud as if they came from the grave.

“We save this world by healing it,” Luther whispered. “Not with fire. Not with destruction.” He felt tears running down his face. “Forgive me, Jerico, but I saw no other way.”

Forward came the blade, pain bursting into him, and as the blood poured across his chest, he closed his eyes and gave up his breath.

Haern didn’t fall very far, or for very long, before he landed on stone. It was sharply curved and perfectly smooth. He grabbed at it, searching for handholds, but there were none to be found. Down into the darkness he slid, unable to slow his descent. Haern tried kicking to one side, hoping to wedge himself in whatever chute he was sliding down, but he only succeeded in turning himself a different direction, and headfirst he flew.

The stone vanished, he was falling, and then he landed upon uneven ground. He heard the rattle of bones, felt pieces of something sharp digging into him. Letting out a groan from the pain, he rolled over and felt at what he’d landed on, for he had no hope of seeing it in the pitch black.