Paul Thompson - The Qualinesti

Kith-Kanan backed away toward the rostrum. It was his safe haven, where not even the evil god’s magic could reach him. “Why do you concern yourself with the slave trade, Lord of the Broken Scales?” he asked.

The god’s elven form shrugged. “I concern myself with all such commerce. I am the patron deity of slavers.”

The stone of the rostrum bumped against Kith-Kanan’s heels. Confidently he climbed backward onto it. “I refuse all your offers, Hiddukel,” he declared. “Go away, and trouble me no further.”

The look of malign enjoyment left the red-garbed elf’s face. Addressed by his true name, he had no choice but to depart. His pointed features twisted into a hateful grimace.

“Your troubles will increase, Speaker of the Sun,” the God of Demons spat. “That which you have created will come forth to strike you down. The hammer shall break the anvil. Lightning shall cleave the rock!”

“Go!” Kith-Kanan cried, his heart pounding in his throat. The single syllable reverberated in the air.

Hiddukel backed away a pace and spun on one toe. His cape swirled around like a flame. Faster and faster the god whirled, until his elven form vanished, replaced by a whirling column of red smoke and fire. Kith-Kanan threw up an arm to shield his face from the virulent display. The voice of Hiddukel boomed in his head.

“The time of wonders is at hand, foolish king! Forces older than the gods surround you! Only the power of the Queen of Darkness can withstand them! Beware!”

The fiery specter of Hiddukel flew apart, and in two heartbeats, the Tower of the Sun was quiet once more. The deep darkness that filled it remained, however. Sweating and shaking from his near escape from the Collector of Souls, Kith-Kanan sank to the floor. His body was wracked with spasms he could not control. A jumble of thoughts and images warred inside his brain—Ulvian, Hermathya, Suzine, Verhanna, his brother Sithas—all surmounted by the leering visage of Hiddukel. He felt as if his soul was the object of a deadly tug-of-war.

Kith-Kanan’s entire body ached. He was limp, worn out, exhausted. Rest was what he craved. He must rest. His eyelids fluttered closed.

“Sire? Speaker?” called a faint voice.

Kith-Kanan pushed himself up on his hands. “Who is it?” he replied hoarsely, brushing hair from his eyes.

A glow appeared from the entry hall. This time it was the mundane light of a lamp in the hands of his castellan.

“I’m here, Tam.”

“Great Speaker, are you well? We could not reach you, and—and the whole city has been plunged into darkness! The people are terrified!”

Concentrating his strength, Kith-Kanan struggled to his feet. Behind the agitated Tamanier were several silent Guards of the Sun. Their usual jaunty posture was gone, replaced by an attitude of tense fear.

“What do you mean?” the Speaker demanded shakily. “How long have I been in here? Is it night?”

Tamanier came closer. His face was white and drawn. “Sire, it is barely noon! Not long after you entered the tower to meditate, a curtain of blackness descended on the city. I came at once to inform you, but the tower doors were barred by invisible forces! We were frantic. Suddenly, only a few moments ago, they swung wide.”

Kith-Kanan adjusted his rumpled clothing and combed his hair back with his fingers. His mind was racing. The tower seemed normal, except for the darkness cloaking it. There was no trace of Hiddukel. He took a deep, restoring breath and said, “Come. We will see what the situation is and then calm the people.”

They went to the entrance, Kith-Kanan striding as purposefully as his nerves and throbbing muscles would allow. Tamanier hurried along with the lamp. The guards at the door presented arms and waited dutifully for the Speaker to pass. The great doors stood open.

Kith-Kanan paused, his feet on the broad granite sill. The gloom beyond was intense, far denser than ordinary night. In spite of the torches carried by Tamanier Ambrodel and several warriors, Kith-Kanan could barely see to the bottom of the tower steps. The torchlight seemed muffled by the jet-black fog. There were no lights to be seen in the gloom, though from this high vantage point, all of Qualinost should be spread out before him. Overhead, no stars or moons were visible.

“You say this happened just after I entered the tower?” he asked tensely.

“Yes, sire,” replied the castellan.

Kith-Kanan nodded. Was this some spell of Hiddukel’s, to coerce him into accepting the god’s vile bargain? No, not likely. The Lord of the Broken Scales was a deceiver, not an extorter. Hiddukel’s victims damned themselves. Their torment was thus sweeter to the wicked god.

“It’s very strange,” Kith-Kanan said in his best royal manner. “Still, it doesn’t seem dangerous, merely frightening. Is the prisoner still in Arcuballis Tower?” No need to bandy the prince’s name about.

One of the guards stepped forward. “I can answer that, sire. I was at the tower myself when the blackness fell. Lieutenant Merithynos thought it might be part of a plot to free his prisoner. No such attempt was made, however, Highness.”

“This is no mortal’s spell,” remarked Kith-Kanan. He swept a hand. through the murk, half expecting it to stain his skin. It didn’t. The gloom that looked so solid felt completely insubstantial, not even damp like a normal fog.

“Tell Merithynos to bring his prisoner to my house,” Kith-Kanan ordered briskly. “Keep him sequestered there until I return.”

“Where are you going, sire?” asked Tamanier, confused and unsure.

“Among my people, to reassure them.”

With no escort and bearing his own torch, Kith-Kanan left the Tower of the Sun. For the next several hours, he walked the streets of his capital, meeting common folk and nobles alike. Fear had thickened the air as surely as the weird gloom. When word spread that Kith-Kanan was in the streets, the people came out of the towers and temples to see him and to hear his calming words.

“Oh, Great Speaker,” lamented a young elf woman. “The blackness smothers me. I cannot breathe!”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s good air,” he assured her. “Can’t you smell the flowers in the gardens of Mantis?” His temple was close by. The aroma of the hundreds of blooming roses that surrounded it scented the still air.

The elf woman inhaled with effort, but her face cleared somewhat as she did. “Yes, sire,” she said more calmly. “Yes…I can smell them.”

“Mantis would not waste his perfume in suffocating air,” said the Speaker kindly. “It’s fear that chokes you. Stay here by the gardens until you feel better.”

He left her and moved on, trailed by a large crowd of worried citizens. Their pale faces moved in and out of the gloom, barely lit by the scores of blazing brands that had sprouted from every window and in every hand. Where the avenue from the Tower of the Sun joined the street that curved northwest to the tower keep called Sithel, Kith-Kanan found a band of crafters and temple acolytes debating in loud, angry voices. He stepped between the factions and asked them why they were arguing.

“It’s the end of the world!” declared a human man, a coppersmith by the look of the snips and pliers dangling from his oily leather vest. “The gods have abandoned us.”

“Nonsense!” spat an acolyte of Astra, the patron god of the elves. “This is merely some strange quirk of the weather. It will pass.”

“Weather? Black as pitch at noon?” exclaimed the coppersmith. His companions—a mix of elves and humans, all metal crafters—loudly supported him.

“You should heed the learned priest,” Kith-Kanan said firmly. “He is versed in these matters. If the gods wanted to destroy the world, they wouldn’t wrap us in a blanket of night. They’d use fire and flood and shake the ground. Don’t you agree?”