David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

Ibis and Ulric glared at Jacob, while Adeline cackled through the rag stuffed in her mouth. Captain Gregorian had informed Karak in a letter that father and son had stormed into the castle after learning of Soleh’s and Vulfram’s deaths, shouting curses against king, god, and realm. Ulric had even put his sword through a palace guard in his anger, before being restrained and thrown in the dungeon. Adeline was dragged there with them, having followed her family into the castle, cackling and throwing rotten eggs as she went. Jacob took this as welcome news; he had planned to use a few of the many men who had been wasting away in the dungeon for tributes. Having the three Moris instead was an unexpected bonus.

Ulric struggled against his restraints, then spit a wad of phlegm in the direction of his god. Karak glared back at him, his glowing eyes growing in brightness.

Jacob began pacing along the raised platform as the Captain dragged the captives toward him. Ignoring Adeline’s ranting, he removed his journal from his rucksack, set it atop a temporary podium that had been erected on the dais, and addressed Clovis once more.

“Despite everything, Highest , I must say that Uther’s missteps were not without benefit. I don’t know how he found out what he did, but he learned ancient words and phrases I had never heard of before, and I believe they may be the key to unlocking the demon kings from their prison.”

“The demons,” Karak said, a bit of life returning to his eyes. The whole journey back to Veldaren he’d appeared distracted, but it finally felt as if he was standing in the same room as them. “Are you certain I need their aid?”

“I watched your battle,” Jacob said. “There is a reason you left before either of you found victory: because you knew there would never be a victor. You are too evenly matched. We will need armies, magic, and power beyond measure if we are to tip the balance in your favor. And most important of all…Celestia has not made her presence known.” Jacob met his god’s eyes, saw the smoldering anger in them. “You know she loves Ashhur far more than you. We must have power, power so great that even the goddess will be forced to tremble.”

“And they will obey you?”

Jacob smiled, his confidence overflowing.

“They will have no choice in the matter.”

Karak nodded, and Jacob cleared his throat. He stared at the pages before him, line after line written in his own hand, chronicling the history of the world and the magic of the unknown. He looked up at Clovis.

“Your son attempted to raise these demons,” said Jacob. “But his errors were twofold. His first mistake was the location. The inscriptions on Neyvar Kardious’s tomb were written in the first Elven tongue. The loose translation was ‘the very spot where Celestia cast the demons out.’ However, I have come to learn that the old language contains many words that have developed double meanings over the centuries. Mu’tarch does indeed mean demon, though in a different context it can also mean ‘god.’ The most common translation for tragnar is ‘to cast out,’ though I have found that in the early texts it often means ‘to bring forth.’ That changes the entire phrase to ‘the very spot where Celestia brought the gods forth.’ That coincides with the words written on the Neyvar’s tomb: ‘In the place of eternal cold, where the rocks on the earth have been sewn shut and not a blade of grass will grow, where the eternal have wandered, where the air is thick with the musk of creation and dreams of darkness prevail.’”

Clovis gasped. Karak narrowed his eyes.

“That’s right. The place where Karak and Ashhur stepped into Dezrel is the area where the wall between the realities is thinnest. And where did that occur?”

He looked at Karak. The god dipped his head.

“Right beneath your feet,” he said.

“Indeed,” said Jacob. “Uther’s second mistake was one of ignorance. For him to think he held even a scrap of the power required to enslave one of the demons is laughable. No matter how many corpses he sacrificed, no matter how much blood he splattered, he was doomed to fail from the start.”

Pulling out a scrap of chalk, Jacob drew a triangle on the floor just behind the throne, inscribing runes he’d found in the darkest corners of the elven caves. When finished, he returned to the podium, grabbed his journal, and then offered his hand to Karak.

“I will need your power,” he said. “Are you willing to give it?”

Karak met his eye, pausing, deciding. “How can you be sure the demon will follow your bidding?” he asked.

“I am the greatest of your creations, my Lord. I have lived ten years longer than any human in Dezrel, and have learned much. You aided by instilling in me the knowledge of ages when I was created. I know what I must do; I know how to control the beast. You must believe that.”

“I do, as much as I believe my brother will never surrender to me, and his resistance will devastate this land. You may have what you ask for.”

The god’s hand engulfed his own.

Jacob took in a deep breath, feeling his nervousness and excitement start to overwhelm him. Fingers caressing his journal, he began to speak, uttering words foreign to him, whose pronunciations he had no way of knowing. Nonetheless they rolled off his tongue so fluently, it was as if someone else were controlling his functions. He felt the deity’s power roar through him, the fabric of creation contained within a malleable physical shell. It filled his mind with a swirl of brilliant light and the deepest darkness. He threw his head back, now virtually screaming out the words, and then it happened.

From the runes shone columns of light that swirled with every color imaginable, both named and not. The shafts of light rose to the ceiling, then slowly shifted, coming together in the center. There they mixed and eddied, creating a pulsing sphere so very much like the one Uther had brought forth in the ravine. The spinning colors expanded, the sphere growing larger, until a black circle formed at its center. The blackness grew, and within it Jacob could see luminous balls of gas, the stars from distant worlds. He stepped away from his podium, released Karak’s hand, and approached the churning sphere, continuing his chanting despite not having his journal to guide him. He felt the heat coming off the thing, felt the pull of divine gravity the closer he drew to it, until it seemed his every particle would be ripped apart, every piece of him disassembled.

The scream grew deep in his breast, a command infused with the power of a god that would not be denied.

“COME FORTH, VELIXAR, BEAST OF A THOUSAND FACES!”

From within the portal stepped a formless mass. It swelled and retracted, belching out a green-yellow mist. The mass was translucent, there but not quite, and it began to take shape. What emerged was the form of a man made of clay, with burning red eyes. Tentacles writhed all around its body, as transparent as the rest of it, and Jacob saw that though the beast had a face, the rest of it was skeletal, as if it had been ravaged in a fire. Atop its head, a giant brain pulsed.

Jacob faced the thing that was there, but not. Its burning red eyes, the only aspect of it that had any substance, glared at him in hatred. Its face shifted with each passing second, becoming various nightmarish images of elves and humans and a hundred things Jacob had never once laid his eyes upon.

“We are the one and the many,” the beast said, sounding like a dozen voices speaking at once. “Who disturbs us?”

Jacob did not cower before its anger, did not wilt before its furious eyes.

“So long,” he whispered as mad winds swirled about the room and Clovis sobbed in terror. “I have waited so very long for this moment.”