Wrath of Takrah

By MJE Michael

The balance has been broken.
The gods known as the Nine have been banished from the mortal realm of Terahn by the Tenth Deity Takrah, and the world begins to be consumed by darkness, slowly succumbing to an icy death. Her ruthless armies kill everyone that comes between them and their goal of domination for the glory of their goddess. The human capital of Estacada falls before the advancing darkness and hope seems dim for the mortals of Terahn as they suffer under her yoke known as the Shroud. The agony of the dying feeds Her, and if no one acts She will be released from Her divine prison.
Dax Falken, orphaned by Her murderous followers, and his comrades muster together the remaining forces of resistance against the armies. However, while Takrah struggles to escape Her prison and Her armies are distracted by the resistance, Dax has his own mission to accomplish; granted to him by the Fates and the Nine.
The only the young mage Dax Falken can discover how to stop Her. Or die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MJE Michael
• Release date: Mar 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465737021

MJE Michael

About the Author MJE Michael is an author born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. She spent her childhood wandering the forests and farmlands of the Willamette Valley of her family's homestead. A stubborn child, she often disappeared for hours at a time—to the dismay of her family—exploring the hidden secrets of the land. MJE Michael has written numerous fictional short stories and is currently working on an upcoming fanatasy trilogy. Wrath of Takrah is MJE Michael's first published novel. Connect with Me Online: Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/MJEMichaelofTerahn Twitter: @MJE_Michael Follow the Terahn Novels Online: Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/TerahnNovels Lastly, a quick shout-out to JRMB Stock of DeviantArt.com for some of their stock images being featured on some of the covers shown. Thanks!

Book preview

PART ONE

"Did you really fight those three trolls with your hands tied?"

Wasn’t really a fair fight if you ask me kid. The sun was glaring on their backs and you know how much that aggravates troll hides.

-Dax Falken and Cole Lynx

What would a block-headed, over-sized rodent know about literature anyway?

-Dalin

First Age

Year 01

The First Age sprang forth from the shifting mists of the Age of the Forgotten. The Forgotten--or Ancient Ones--were the first of the gods who vanished into the belly of the world, never to be seen again. They created the Nine to take their place as the ruling gods and preside over Terahn as their final involvement with the mortal realm.

Unfortunately the creation of gods did not end there.

For while this happened, from the mortals’ very own fear, greed, malice, violence, hate, and spilled blood came the Tenth Deity; Takrah. She was the embodiment of all the evil in the world, and because of that, far more powerful than all the other deities; only combined could they stop her.

Apart from the realm of mortals, the deities watched over Terahn, mournful, for they longed to be with the mortals. The time had come, they decided, to enter the mortal realm. The doorway between all the realms that existed was called the Gate. It had many powers, but for the most part was unused by any of the realms. The Nine approached the Gate, as they had decided to pool their powers, and tried to open the Gate. But they failed, for the Gate could only be opened from the mortal realm. The Ancient Ones had done this to protect the mortals, and it would take considerable power to open the Gate.

So they called upon the most powerful of all the magic bearing mortals, and imbued in him their own magic; for their magic could travel between realms even if they could not. The mage accepted the power and opened the Gate for the gods to enter.

The deities passed through, one by one, until the Gate that had withstood so much magical pressure began to break. To their horror, the gods realized that if the Gate destabilized the deities would forever be stranded among the mortals. With only their mortal sheaths to protect them in this world, they too would be susceptible to death. However, they were saved by the most unlikely of beings. Malignant darkness filled the portal and demonic creatures poured through followed by the Evil One--Takrah.

Frantic, they stripped their magic away from the mortal who’d aided them and captured their sister deity, and because she was surprised at their veracity--they did. Imprisoning her, they took her from the Gate to a region of barren land. There they bound her rending both a magical and a physical barrier against her escaping. They cursed her prison naming it the Siriol Karma.

Relieved, they returned to the Gate and were surprised to find that the Gate was no longer in threat of collapse. Despite this joy they were sorrowed to find the mortal that helped them was ruined. He lay upon the steps of the Gate, aged beyond his years, driven to madness, and nearly dead. For all of his help, they never showed him gratitude; instead they had devastated him with their haste.

Out of pity, Sati wept over him and when her tears touched upon his skin, his health, but not his youth, returned him and he became immortal. One by one they all came, gifting him. Nahara gave him hope, Kar’kleia purified his soul, Jaru the Vigilant gave him virtue, and Magus the Enchanted gave him telepathy. The elements came next and gave to him a giant sized guardian to protect him on all his journeys. As they could not give him back his youth, they allowed him and his guardian to pass through the Gate and into the realms beyond. However, all knew this would never be enough to repay him for his sacrifice, and the almost total loss of his sanity.

Far off in the Siriol Karma Takrah fumed, already planning to overthrow the Nine who’d bested her. So she searched with her mind across the land for ones she could easily control through their own evil tendencies, and drew them to her, like a spider enticing flies, making them her followers. She trained them, she let them taste part of her fell magic, and in time she became their puppet master. Centuries passed, but her eyes still glimmered for she knew the inevitable.

Takrah would repay the Nine for her imprisonment.

Soon.

First Age

3031 Spring-Present Day

From Betoken Grove in the northwest, four armies departed. They traveled through the dark spring nights and silently they passed the clerical fortress of Planthas, the human city of the Ecclesiarch. The armies were made of ill begotten orcs, men, goblins, trolls, and even a titan for each of the armies. The first army traversed to the crook of the Blue Mountains and Silver Peaks where the human capital of Mercine, Estacada lay. It was a great white citadel with high walls and higher watch spires. Inside Estacada encompassed the mass of the people of Mercine, and held within its castle’s bedrooms the royal family—who slept ignorantly in their beds.

The second army delved farther into Mercine, to its southerly lands where the majority of grains were raised and exported, along where its most prominent seaport lay.

The third went south, to the tribal lands that slumbered in the shadow of the Krag Mountains. The mines inside the Krag Mountains held the splendorous dwarven city Silvern; a mining city carved entirely from a silver vein. The city was their prize and glory, and it lay dear in dwarves' heart.

The last army went the least farthest; journeying only to the Kree Valley, the main trade center and the axis that held Mercine and Gallax together as one. Percolating through the edge of the valley and surrounding mountains they waited, until the time was ripe.

On the third, the winds came sighing softly with the sweet air of spring and innocence. The skies over Terahn were blue with wisps of white cirrus high in the air; the day was balmy and beautiful. It seemed like nothing could go wrong for the deities were seen smiling, and peace filled the air.

They attacked.

Springing from the newly grown grass and bright forests, leagues of dark armored bodies spilled forth razing every structure that they could see. They seized control of Kree quickly, enslaving the youthful people and killing all the rest. The babes and elderly were burned in piles of charred flesh, whether they be dead or alive. Others were spitted for consumption; the orcs smiled in glee as thoughts of man flesh filled their minds.

All that was left in Kree were the smoldering remains of what once was a happy valley, whose prosperity had been destroyed.

In Estacada, stealthy assassins percolated into the grand castle in the virgin daybreak, and slaughtered all those of royal blood they could find viciously, leaving each room a blood bath. The rest of the army rammed through the barred gates of the city with their titan’s indomitable power, taking the city by surprise and annihilating all of the Estacadians who did not turn tail and run from the city.

The pearly city was awash with blood as countless died in a matter of hours. Streams carried the blood away to the Blue River, and stained the river a bright red that rendered the water undrinkable for days. The few who survived were taken as slaves. The destroyed city--once a beautiful pearl, was razed, and burned down to the stone foundations. The stone was to be scorched and stained for many, many generations--for none would dare approach it and the reek it held of decaying flesh.

In the shadow of the Krag Mountains, they quickly traveled to the city of Silvern and visited the dwarves with their plight of death. They killed families left and right as they stripped almost all the silver from the city forcing the dwarves to hide deeper within their tunnels like rodents. In one fell swoop; the dark armies took control of almost all Terahn in a single late spring day.

The Nine, who had long since parted ways in the selfish manner of the gods were each greeted by servant that Takrah, divided her powers into. The Evil One’s powers—divided as they may be—were still more powerful than each of the Nine. Standing alone, instead of together as they were meant to, because of their pride was their downfall. The Nine were overcome by the servants of Takrah and the Nine’s mortal sheaths were destroyed, and forcing them to return to the realm of the gods. And because they could not pass through the Gate from their realm to that of the mortals, the Nine were now in a prison of their own.

With their absence, the sortilege that bound Takrah to the Northern Wastes was weakened. Not so enough that She could escape, but enough to make a considerable difference. So she quickly withdrew her power from her servants and pressed her bonds that now bent but did not break (as she had little care with withdrawing her power from the avatar, it mad from the hollowness and want of power, and killed itself).

The chaos, war and bloodshed increased her power, so she patiently and confidently waited. For it was only a matter of time before she was able to break the bonds of her detestable prison, now that a war was sure to ensue.

Whether by design or simply chance, Takrah forgot completely about the Fates, who would have a great impact on Terahn and all her people.

CHAPTER I

Sextus 6TH -7TH

A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.

-Chinese Proverb

The sixth day of the Sextus dawned quietly over the peaceful trade city of Morak. The sun peeked lazily through the broad leaves of the dendroid colonization. Hovering brightly in the early morning, it gazed down at the land below as the first stirrings from slumber began to awaken people. Sleepy smiles crossed the faces of many as they slowly crawled from their warm nest of blankets into the crisp morning air.

The pale sunshine alleviated the shadows that clung to the sides of market shops and brick homes. Few stirred in this serene moment. Those who did walked carefully as if afraid to break the contented feeling the morning gave. Citizens who were up knew that this moment would only exist briefly before the markets opened and the noise of city life filled the air raucously; so they enjoyed it while they still could.

There were only two people who seemed to be ignorant of the blissful morning, a battered messenger on a lame and foaming horse, and a lone boy inside the more prestigious of Morak’s schools.

Dax Falken sat hidden amongst the dusty tomes of the school library with anxiety filling his heart and clouding his mind. The arcane instructions scrawled on the tome opened before him were faded with age, and the book itself was a worn and outdated, much older than the books the rest of his schoolmates possessed. Dax had never even bought the book at all; it had been handed down to him and was once owned by his grandfather. His grandfather had been an archmage once, working for the king of Estacada himself before his death. Dax’s family had lived with his grandfather in Estacada briefly before his death. The silver-eyed youth remembered very little of the man, but what he did remember was how much kindness the man had shown him. His grandfather had been an incredible archmage, but he had been an even better man, which had always inspired Dax to be like him.

This was why being unable to successfully employ and remember the levitation spell before frustrated him so much. Perhaps he would never be like his grandfather at all. Perhaps he would never be a mage.

Dax sighed while rubbing his forehead with fatigue. He had spent the entire night sitting before this book in the chilly and dimly lit library. If he failed at being a mage, it would disappoint his parents—especially his mother, who had been his grandfather’s daughter. Not only that, all the time, and money they had squeezed into his dream could never be recovered. His grandfather may have been very successful; but his own family was poor and had sacrificed much for him. It would hurt his own family as much as he if it turned out that he was a failure, and that all their efforts had been for waste.

Dax ran his hands down his face and began to read again. Licking his lips, he brushed a lock of brown hair from his silver eyes that flicked over the passage again. Reading slower this time, he attempted to coax the spell to memory. Still, it would not stay neatly in place. Force seemed to make the spell more resistant to his memory.

A light touch fell on Dax's bent shoulder as a smooth voice began to speak to him softly in the dim library. Perhaps the problem is that you are trying to force it to your mind. Try letting it flow instead child, maybe then you will remember.

Startled upright, Dax looked up into the eyes of one of his many teachers; her large green eyes staring intelligently back with a hint of amusement at his plight. Beledon’s eyes were inhumanly large, set against her cool, sea-foam skin. Framing her face were strands of deep green hair smelling of honeysuckle with tangles of leaves and butterfly cocoons in it. Beledon’s emerald eyes were deep jewels of knowledge and wisdom from ages they had seen. Feral green hair grew at the knife-edge of her forearm and presumably along the back of her legs. Now her legs were hidden by her long, heavy and enveloping robes. The robes were gray-black, with runes sewn along the hem in brilliant silver thread, protecting her against magical assaults. A robe designed for tutors at the Mennen School for the Gifted. Beledon was a very beautiful creature—there was no doubt of that—but she was also a passionate and stern teacher who had the respect of all her tanu students.

Her smooth face made her seem no older than twenty—same as he. Beledon's eyes belied this youthful look, making her seem as old as Terahn itself, a common rumor in the school. Few had the nerve to ever ask her how old she truly was. When the brave few did, she would always politely smile, and continue on with the previous topic. She was an excellent teacher, but as secretive one as well when it came to herself. However, when it came to others, she seemed to intuit almost too much.

Have patience tanu, it will come. Smiling with closed lips, Beledon gestured to the dusty windows where the yellow rays of light could be seen gracing the sky. Looking out, Dax sighed uneasily, hoping he would not fail. Beledon wistfully watched the outside world for a moment before turning back to Dax. The silver-eyed mage wondered if the nymph ever missed the wild when cooped up in the city. He supposed she must for there were periods that Beledon would simply disappear from the school only to reappear again later. The intervals of her leaving were as variegated as the lengths; much like her age it was a popular mystery.

Softly she spoke again, It is time no more for study—but for breakfast.

Dax sighed, running his fingers through his hair. After having lived at Mennen, he knew that Beledon wasn’t giving a suggestion. The silver-eyed youth stood from the table piled with tomes, straightening his mouse-colored robes. Upon the left breast of his robes was an arcane insignia signifying his tanu status. Dax began to gather his things. However, as he lifted his grandfather's tome, Beledon threw small, shiny, black seeds upon the desktop. The nymph began to softly sing in a whisper.

The quiet room seemed to fall under a magical hush as before his amazed eyes the seeds grew into thick strong vines that grasped the remaining tomes and put them away correctly. Green and thorny, the vines twisted and grew leaves with alarming and silent speed. Once their deed had been accomplished, they diminished by change of Beledon’s whispered tone and became seeds once more. Beledon bent slightly and scooped the seeds up from the table, returning them to some hidden pocket in her outer robe.

Food with give you a clearer mind, I suggest you hurry.

Smiling briefly, she left him in the study as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Then again, for her it wasn’t out of the ordinary. Shaking his head at the memory of the magical feat he had just witnessed, he started towards the mess hall, his soft leather boots whispering on the hardwood floor.

Entering the mess hall he was once more stunned at how large it was--a fact he had never gotten used to. With grand, vaulted ceilings painted with the legends of the gods. Large open windows brought the crisp, fresh air and pouring sunshine in to waken the students. Twelve tables, long and sturdy filled the room along with the scents of warm food.

Each of the twelve tables signified a level of tanu training. Only mages of the same level were allowed to eat at the same table. Class migration was easier to manage in this manner. It also gave students visible goals to strain for.

The staff of thirty-one (thirty teachers and the headmaster) ate at the head of the hall on a different and grandly polished table. As he watched, Beledon climbed up to the table and seated herself next to one of the male teachers who brightened at her arrival. Dax looked away and quickly slunk over to the tenth table waited. Blushing he apologized to the table for being late, for they had to wait for his arrival before eating. Hastily they thanked the Nine for their meal and then dived into the feast laid before them. There were sausages, waffles, meal, cereal (hot and cold) breakfast pastries and a multitude of many other things that were too delicious to describe.

Falken was the oldest there by a year, and so it was awkward for him, and slightly embarrassing. The silver-eyed youth had been a tenth for over a year and a half now. Dax should have been an eleventh. He shoved away that thought and continued scarfing down his meal until he felt sated. With his mind unoccupied by food, he began to worry once more about the test that loomed ahead. As anxiety started to percolate through him, he looked around for something new to distract him.

His first look was to the teenage girls who sat, respectfully, at the other end of the table, poised in their manner of eating and not getting any of the actual mess of the mess hall on them. One that caught his eye was the blaze-haired Amber, a mage who frequented his foolish fantasies. Foolish, for he would never have her—she was neither interested nor available. A wealthy merchant had already been arranged to marry her. A mage for a wife was very lucrative. It was not uncommon for the higher class citizens to arrange marriages in Terahn. As long as it was beneficial, usually the children were not given a chance to object. This was especially true for the girls—but Amber seemed rather thrilled about the opportunity.

With a heavy inward sigh, he turned away, noticing for the first time a commotion. Someone unusual had come in the second entrance of the mess hall, near to where the staff ate. A messenger, torn and bloodied, stumbled and staggered to the staff. There he whispered hurriedly and passed along a letter before dropping to his knees. The messenger was clearly exhausted and wounded. A male teacher stood and called for one of the students to get the nurse as he set the man down in a chair. His head rolled back and Dax felt a thrill of fear that the man might have died; he was relieved when he noticed the rise and fall of the messenger’s chest.

By now, more people than just Dax had noticed the strange happenings and the mess hall quieted to an expectant hush. The messenger was taken away with the aide of two strong students. A teacher, whom Dax recognized as Achelon opened the dirty, bloody finger printed letter. After scanning quickly over the letter, he beckoned another student to his side and whispered to the youth. All eyes followed the student who walked through the silent mess hall. Dax felt his heart plummet to his stomach and his stomach to the floor. He realized that the student—a twelve year—was gradually making his way to the silver-eyed youth. Part of Dax wanted to scream in denial, but a dread certainty had already clutched onto his mind. The young mage turned away from the advancing student. Dax could feel that something big, and terrible was about to happen. It was not a surprise though, when he felt the student touch him on the shoulder.

Master Achelon wishes to speak with you.

The color left his face and his head felt slightly dizzy as he rose to his unsteady feet as he walked to Achelon. The man’s old face was as grim as his steel gray hair and faded blue eyes. It seemed to take forever as he walked the distance to the staff table. Before Dax should stop and totter to the ground, Achelon’s strong hands with their fierce grip took him by the arm. Achelon propelled him to the hallway outside the door through which the messenger had come through. As the door swung shut behind them, the twelfth touched another student on the shoulder, and another, and another and another…

There was less tension in the corridor outside the mess hall, but Dax still felt fearful anticipation. Achelon led him silently along the hall; presumably to his office, but the young mage could not stand not knowing what happening. Dax needed to put a name on this awful dread that clutched him.

Wait, he said pulling the teacher to a stop as he halted his steps, What’s going on? Achelon looked around and sighed in discontent.

A rider brings news of an incident in Mercine.

What do you mean incident? Dax asked suddenly truly afraid as his heart beat as fast as a hummingbird’s against his rib cage. It beat so hard he thought would surely break open his chest and spill to the floor. So just in case, he put a suspenseful hand over his heart.

Achelon, the teacher for whom he was supposed to be tested by today licked his lips nervously, a habit unlike his cool aloof manner. The behavior just added to Dax’s paranoia. What could be terrible enough to ruin even Achelon’s icy composure?

It seems, he wiped his tongue across his lips. Your homeland was attacked by invaders. The bodies of your parents were found among the dead. The teacher put a comforting hand on his shoulder. It was forced and clumsy, as if he wasn’t used to doling out sympathy. I’m sorry child.

Dax stood there in cold silence and it seemed as if his heart stopped beating altogether. His mouth opened and shut in half thought requests that never made it past his throat, making him look much like a drowning fish. Achelon, unused to such deliverance of news left him in the hallway with a murmured word saying he would excuse him from all classes today. Then he turned, leaving Dax completely alone to stumble back to his room in mute shock and dismay.

~*~

Falken didn’t shed a tear as he sat down on his bed in silence. He was numb with the news, the only feeling going through his system the feeling of utter loneliness and emptiness. His heart felt like it had been ripped, leaving a dark void. He barely registered the thought that now that he was without family and funding support he would have to leave Mennen. That alone would ordinarily reduce him to a pathetic sludge, but it didn’t mean anything to him anymore. It was as if without his family, nothing really mattered all that much anymore.

The sun slid across the cheerful sky to its zenith when a knock came unnoticed to Dax. A figure slipped in, and laid down a try of food and then quickly left the coming and going totally unrealized by Dax.

Sinking from there, the sun and Dax’s food grew cold. The sun fell, filtered through the trees towards the horizon. Sometime during all of shocked silence Dax must have fallen asleep, for when he looked about, he was no longer in his own room.

Dax sat in a hard wooden chair in a black room before a woman with a hood over her face, as she dealt out some Tarot cards, while looking him directly in the eyes. Or at least he thought she was--he couldn’t quite see her eyes.

She laid the first card down: your past has been humble this card tells me, but the past is nothing new to you so we shall what has happened to you in the present. She drew another card; this one bearing bloody fingerprints, much like the letter had before.

In the dream he closed his eyes. No, I already know what that card means. Don’t lay it down please.

But I must. She said with sympathy, and then told him about his family’s death once more. She told them of how they had died and by what in a hollow voice that chilled and horrified him though at last she stopped.

The present becomes the past though with time, and though the past may hurt, the fact remains that you cannot change it to make it hurt less. You can only look to the future to help you forget the fresh pain.

The woman drew a third card without looking at it or setting it down, it seemed she hesitated for some reason. Looking at him she seemed to come to a decision. She laid the card down.

It was blank.

For a moment Dax forgot his pain at the loss of his family and he looked at the woman in confusion. What does this mean? That I have no future?

She shook her head and silently gestured for him to look at the card again.

His silver gaze looked down once more expecting a blank card, but to his surprise the card now flashed images before him. The first was of a lone soldier confronting a massive army. The next was a man with a shining claymore standing before a jet-black dragon with hellfire red eyes. The final image, which stayed the longest then, dissipated like smoke was a black-cowled figure, thin as a rail that swung at him a terrible jagged and bloodied scythe. As he watched it ripped the surface of the card with the blade, but was gone before it could reach out and touch him.

Gasping with harsh breath and a sweaty face, he pushed away from the table and the terrible card of his future. Licking his lips he sputtered at the woman. Who now, he notice, drew the cowl over her face deeper.

You tell me my future holds death?

Don’t we all die sometime though? she replied. There was something in her voice that made him look at her again, and he realized that during the entire reading he had not seen her face. Who are you? he whispered softer than velvet.

The woman sat rigid in silence then seemed to fade away as in reality Dax began to wake.

Desperately for some reason unknown to him he lunged forwards and lifted away her cowl. Two bright shame-faced eyes glittered at him from the face of his mother’s broken face. He saw where a sword had cleaved the top of her skull into two. The multitude of bruises piled upon her like a mockery of cosmetics.

Then she was gone and he was left in an empty dark room. Which quickly changed into…

… His bedroom, with the silver moon shining brightly over the forest treetops and in his eyes. Dax’s bed was sticky with perspiration and his joints sore from being in the same position for so long. Sitting up, his bones creaked and cracked like an old man. Sighing he left his bed, confused just how he fell asleep, and detached by the strange dream he had had, which was little more than tatters in his mind.

Falken stretched, grabbing a piece of his cold lunch and chewing on it thoughtfully. He surmised from what Achelon had told him that he no longer had anywhere to turn to. His family home, no doubt was burned down, his funding for being a student at Mennen was obsolete, and he had no other relatives for his mother’s family had died young and his father had been an orphan.

Grabbing another piece of cold meat he sat down with a sigh, this was all going wrong. He was supposed to be a great mage like his grandfather (whom he was named after) and be able to take care of his parents with the fortune he got from using his magic. However, it turned out that he was just an ordinary mage without even a Talent. While his grandfather had been the highest among his peers and had a rare Talent for mutability. He could change his shape into any other persons on his slightest whim.

A soft knock on his door interrupted his musings. Walking over the short distance he opened the door to find a twelfth year student outside his door waiting anxiously with sleep reddened eyes and a melting candle in his hand.

The headmaster wishes to speak with you.

Then he yawned and gestured vaguely for Dax to follow him to where Pemmier’s office and quarters lay. Going through the winding halls was dream-like in the dead of the night as he followed his tired guide. Hidden corridors he had never even seen before were revealed to him through magic. Until finally he stood before a grand double door that reached up higher than the candle’s light could reach.

The twelfth year stopped there producing a fresher candle for himself and giving Dax the other before leaving he left. Not knowing quite what to do, Dax stood out there for a few minutes before a booming voice from the inside told him to come in. Dax licked his lips and placed a soft hand nervously upon the door. The moment his fingertips grazed the surface of the wood, it swung wide open, startling him. The room was dark, so while suspiciously looking at the ensorcelled doors he stepped inside with the feeble light of his candle flame.

It was as if someone had suddenly turned on the sun when he crossed the doorway. For instantly the room was alight with bright new candles that lit everywhere along with the even brighter mage lights. The lights reflected in perfection from the highly polished desk that sat piled with papers and grades, and the multitude of other things.

A cry from his right caught his attention, and he looked in time to see a hawk gaze piercingly at him from a cage. It was one of the messenger birds Mennen had for the use of the staff, but this great avian seemed to be the personal beast of Pemmier. It stood proudly before him like a tiny griffin with great power. Dax’s feet guided him over to the bird and he was about to reach out and touch the creature when a deep voice spoke behind him. Dax Falken.

Dax turned around to see headmaster Pemmier rifle through a personal file that he assumed was his own. The man, a tall proud yequerian with peppered hair and bright purple eyes, gestured for Dax to seat himself on a chair that was provided for him. Dax sat, self-consciously smoothing out his tanu robe as he realized it was wrinkled from sleeping in it. The headmaster smiled at his actions then spoke grievously. I am sorry to hear of your parent's death Falken; do you have somewhere to go? Any family? Siblings, cousins, or extended families?

Dax shook his head.

This is indeed a sad day then. For more than one reason.

The tanu student raised an eyebrow in inquisition not knowing of what was meant by the previous words. However, before Pemmier could speak a soft knock came from the door and the headmaster gestured someone in. Beledon was shrouded in her traveling cloak, her face grim. A pack was swung across her shoulder stepped lightly in.

Taking leave?

Times such as these bid me to leave here headmaster, I like not the company that ventures here as we speak. And I like less the absence of the deities, I can no longer feel their powerful auras, it concerns me greatly.

Pemmier nodded solemnly, seemingly to forget that Dax was still in the room as the two educators spoke.

Do you think the Nine truly gone from this realm? she nodded. Pemmier started to speak before he realized that Dax was still within the room with a face aghast at the news he had heard. Hastily Pemmier put a hand on his should to comfort him.

Not all is lost boy, the deities still watch over us; but you know that you cannot remain here. So go into the commons and seek work as a freelance mage. Have drink maybe as well but tell none of what you have heard here, for the panic may cause more damage than the public being ignorant of the truth.

Dax nodded, shocked for the second time in twenty-four hours, and a sack of coins was dropped into his tanu robe. The deities are truly gone? he asked in disbelief.

The deities are never truly gone as long as there are those who still believe in them.

~*~

An hour later found Dax packed for wherever the road might take him. His tanu robe was cast aside for another wearer, and his bed made for someone else to sleep in. He filled a travel pack with a change of clothes, a cook pan, water flask and some food from the mess hall. Trinkets and his other possessions (which weren’t much) lay in the bottom of the pack as he pulled on durable boots, slacks and a tunic. He took with him his only weapon, a short dagger that he hid in his boot for safekeeping.

With a final glance at his barren room, he left Mennen School for the Gifted. That stable life he had once known was gone now, replaced with whatever lay before him. It would be useless to look backward as he descended the entrance steps leaving the school behind him. No one walked him out; he had few friends--most of them casual at that. Only the hollow echoes of his feet upon the hard stairs followed him out. He entered the busy noise of Morak's market, leaving behind the hushed walls of Mennen.

After wandering for a short while, as the sun fell behind the trees of the Mirrowood, he found himself in a tavern. He had a pint before him, and six coppers already spent from what Pemmier gave him. Dax couldn’t remember exactly where two or three of those coppers had vanished to, and had mild suspicion that some thief had lightened his pockets. Somehow though, the theft seemed of little importance to him. So thinking, he titled his head back and swallowed more ale. The bartender chuckled when Dax gave a drunken burp and nearly fell of the stool.

What ails you lad that you have to drink so much ale?

My family, he slurred slightly, they’ve been killed by invaders in my homeland. He felt his eyes tear up from grief, or perhaps alcohol. He didn’t know for sure which, and he was past the point of caring. Dax cleared his drink-scorched throat and watched with detachment as bubbles swam up to the surface of his drink. Quick and small, he was suddenly reminded of fey folk that supposedly lived all around.

The bartender frowned speculatively as if wondering if he could trust a liquored youth’s tale. Invaders? The lands are at peace, there are no invaders. But even the bartenders seemed uneasy as if he could almost feel otherwise. The bartender asked finally what Dax meant, curiosity getting the better of the round and greasy man. Dax opened his mouth, but a melodious voice answered before him from a table farther off.

"If there are no invaders then another such truth would be that there is no ale in this tavern at all."

Dax and the bartender turned around to see a figure swaddled in a thick cloak smile broadly with a scruffy unshaven chin. He had at his side a long sword, well kept in a sturdy scabbard. His thick, leather trousers were roughly sewn in many places and assortment of daggers strapped to him. On his back was a casually slung bow with a full regiment of arrows. There are four armies out there my friend and they haven’t been inspiring any friendliness by what they are doing. The bartender, to Dax’s disbelief, laughed at the heavily armed man.

An’ what would a free-sword know about real war?

The man’s smile twisted with humor at the remark from the tavern keeper. More than a bartender tied to his tavern, I should think. As for being a free-sword, I’d suggest that you don’t insult me again with that remark and show this ranger more respect.

The potbellied man sputtered from behind the counter, his forehead sopping-wet with fresh sweat. Without seeming to think, he fished out a dirty, oily rag from an apron pocket and mopped at it. He licked his lips nervously and gave a wan smile. A ranger you say?

Aye.

The tavern became quieter with expectation. Travelers and streetwalkers alike turned their heads one by one to watch. It was hot in the tavern and perspiration beaded on all their faces, but unlike the bartender, they didn’t seem to care. Rangers had sour reputations in these lower parts for killing any man who offended them. Usually a ranger would stick to his territory in the mountains, so it was unusual to see one in the low city of Morak at all.

The ranger, casually then, took out a long and wickedly curved dagger. In a moment’s blink, the entire tavern was quiet except for the rasping noise of the ranger testing the sharpness of his dagger with his thumb. The bartender sweated more at this and the tension in the air thickened.

Dax looked, suddenly quite sober, into the crowd. Angry faces glared darkly on the calm ranger as he sat peacefully with his dagger looking blatantly at everyone all at once as if to challenge them. Rangers, Dax knew, were not liked at all in Morak, and he could feel that the air was pregnant waiting for a fight. He felt a single butterfly flop in his stomach in nervousness, or perhaps he was only sick with liquor.

I don’t want no troubles here ranger, take your business elsewhere.

I have done anything wrong, why do ask me to leave? The ranger replied calmly, his brown eyes taking all in a quickly calculating. Dax, despite his preoccupations, was taken in by the unfolding drama, drank the rest of his ale waiting to see what would come next.

Damn rangers! A cry roared out from the shadowy depths of the tavern, setting everyone into motion all at once. A surge of half the men came at the ranger—who was on his feet in lightning speed—yelling battle cries. Dax set down his mug and stood, startled by the sudden riot. He faltered standing, but found his balance almost at once, even though he had drunk very little before in his life.

He was about to help the ranger—for in Mercine rangers were highly respected—but saw that help was unneeded. The rough faced man held his own against six men, felling them with a leg he ripped from a table. It was amazing to watch him fight. He was fair in his ways, and didn’t even kill a single man—though without a doubt, he bruised them all greatly.

A big hairless fellow in a sleeveless tunic stepped forward and started to tangle with the ranger. By all odds of sheer size, the ranger should have been taken easily down. The ranger wasn’t even quite at the man’s chest height. Somehow though, he was always one second faster than the big man, narrowly avoiding being broken in half numerous times.

Dax peeled his eyes away from the fight for a moment, and saw a dark movement behind the ranger. A small, weasely man held up a pool cue like a spear and was licking his lips trying to find an opportune time to hurl it at the ranger. Falken looked around frantically, but it was obvious that no one else saw this evil, cowardly man.

A large thud brought him back to the fight and he saw the ranger standing on the big man who drooled unconsciously. The ranger wore a big swarthy smile and nodded to the bartender who was in despair over the damages done. The crowd of men back away from the ranger allowing him plenty of room as he stepped down paid the tavern keeper compensation a headed out the door next to Dax. Dax watched the ranger leave into the night and then slipped out discretely. The cowardly man also slunk out of the tavern, a stolen cue in his grip.

The little man’s face twisted with malevolence.

The pool cue whistled in the air as it flew and before he could even think, Dax willed a spell that released a crackling flame from the palm of his outstretched hand. Bright, intense fire leapt forth from the mage and crossed towards the ranger. It charred and broke apart the cue with intense flame. The ranger turned, but if it had not been for Dax’s intervention it would have been lethally too late. Ashes fell to the ground before the amazed ranger’s eyes as the last of the cue crumbled and the cowardly man fled for his life back into the tavern. Dax was now alone with the ranger outside, while back in the tavern, it grew rowdy once more.

The ranger peered keenly at him in the darkness; his eyes seemed to penetrate the mage’s very flesh. You saved my life. Dax could only nod, feeling small in presence of the ranger. Why? the ranger inquired.

Why not?

The ranger mulled over the words Dax uttered out without thinking. It was dark outside, with only the stars and the sickle moon to shed any brilliance. Even with such poor lighting though, Dax could see the ranger’s tough face twist with thought and scrutiny.

Very honorable of you. Though now I am in your debt with no way to pay for you saving my life because I have to leave with a wagon tonight.

At least you have somewhere to go. Dax said glumly, thinking of his own placelessness in the world. Then realizing that he had said his thought aloud he blushed profusely and tried to think of something that might make him seem less sniveling. Unfortunately nothing came while he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the next. He suddenly wished that he was far, far from Morak.

The ranger seemed to take in all that Dax looked like as if trying to decide something.

You’re the boy whose family is dead.

Dax Falken nodded, stubbornly ignoring the word boy, and the pain of his fresh loss. He wondered what the ranger was thinking, for in such bad lighting it was hard to make out his face. It was then that Dax felt the first stirring of his soul, as if something important might happen to him in this very moment.

You’ve no place to go?

Another nod.

The ranger smiled as if he came to a satisfactory solution to his problems of repaying Dax for his life. Then why don’t you come with me lad? Besides, once that coward lets word you saved my life, I don’t think you will be welcome in this town anymore.

Dax bit his lip indecision. I really do have no place to go, and this ranger might have some interesting adventures. Like with any young man it took him only a moment to decide, and he quickly nodded that he would join the ranger. Dax attested that the man was probably right; rangers weren’t well looked upon in Morak, and those who helped rangers were looked upon even less. The ranger clapped him on the back jovially saying it would be good to have his company. Falken had only one question though.

What is your name ranger?

If possible, the ranger’s smile grew wider and his eyes twinkled even more in the starlight. Cole Lynx.

CHAPTER II

Sextus 6TH-7TH

All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley

He was a young man by the standards of his people; thirty-seven and he already had set off on his own. The yequerians he had been raised with were the ancient healers of Terahn, and took in the sick and injured who traveled in their homeland. They had greater abilities than the elves, for the yequerians were a much older race, sprung forth from—as legend told—the gods. He left them though as he knew they always secretly wished him to. A freak among his own people, he had been feared because of his malicious spirit and attitude toward others. His own people had a distinct discomfort around him, and politely shunned him while he’d lived with them. And yet not his people; for he was not fully one of them, in either temperament or blood.

He was only half, half yequerian, impure and dirty in their eyes, yet others half-race were graciously accepted. Of course, they were not of half-demon blood. From his very birth he’d been labeled as different. He’d been born differently too, his eyes were not a baby-green, nor hair peppered, but instead his eyes were orange and his hair jet black. His looks alone marked him as different, and were complimented by his enjoyment of the pain and discomfort he caused in other people.

The demon inside him, given to him by his incubus father, burned and fueled his lust for domination. He was conceived in violence and rape. His father pillaged his mother’s innocence and nearly broke her mind with his violent abuse of her during the boy’s conception. That same drive that his father had to destroy was very much alive in him as well. The love of violence and death lived inside him, but he didn’t feed it tactlessly like his father (who was later destroyed by his own grandfather). Instead he was cunning and subtle, taking and giving discretely, and never detected by others.

Oh how he was like his father, and not as well.

The boy was young, but intelligent, and already had surpassed all his teachers in the dark arts. He was more than a mage, sorcerer or wizard. The power contained inside him let him surpass these titles as easily as a river might pass by two lovers having a picnic on its sandy banks. This young child at thirty-seven, whose people lived for almost millennia at a time, was the highest of all: a warlock. And for his abilities he had been rewarded.

He stood in a dark and gloomy—though finely furbished—room, with bookcases on either side of him glowing with an unnatural sickly orange-green color. The glow came from magical tomes and grimoires, accumulated over the centuries by the many High Lords of the Acolytes. Inside the insidious texts were every spell, hex, jinx, bane and curse of dark nature; and, idea for spell, or attempt of a new spell was contained in them. As in all aspects of life, knowledge was power, and after reading any of the tomes a reader would feel more mentally full, and (most importantly) more powerful. He’d read all of them, unlike the current High Lord of the Acolytes.

Smiling wry, he thought of how soon, the title would be given to him.

Thumbing the edges of a closed text, he thought of his position so quickly accumulated in the Acolytes. He was termed the Successor, next in line to be High Lord, though he was young. A position of great power now, and even greater power after the war was won and the land was under the dominating reign of the Acolytes and their High Lord. Yes, great power—something he craved for like a starving child hungered for food.

Even that amount of power would not be great enough for him however.

As powerful as being High Lord could be, there were too many chances to be as easily killed as he planned to kill the current High Lord. What he truly wanted was secret, known solely to him, though he would reveal it someday to his beloved deity. It was something only She could help him attain—and make him greater than any High Lord, king, or ruler. Glory and power beyond imagining could be his with her aid; and he knew it was almost within his grasp. Oh yes, he could almost taste it.

You are summoned, Sumatra, to the council and the High Lord, in the High Lord’s living quarters.

Sumatra didn’t turn to face the man who stood in the doorway of the library, but his face crinkled slightly at the man’s intrusion. The light he let in to the library cast itself upon the books made their glow diminish. A hot rage welled up within Sumatra. He closed his eyes briefly, then they snapped open once more, and he whirled, gathering his magic to throw a purple-black lightning bolt into the man’s chest. A scream could barely escape the man’s lips right before his turned entirely to ashes.

I don’t remember saying that I could be disturbed in here. He growled. Later, a drudge would be called to sweep up the floor. Straitening his body and clothes, he set the book he’d been fondling delicately back in place. One had to respect the books. Treat them well, and they would treat you well.

Sumatra’s black robe whispered as he walked briskly from the room, unperturbed that he had taken a man’s life not moments ago without a justified reason other than he’d been annoyed. The robes were long, and flowing, cinched at the waist with a golden cord. Along the hem of his robe, and the hood that he wore to conceal his youthful face were golden runes, shifting with magical properties, and the strongest of all runes for protection. The warlock was not paranoid, but he was cautious and prepared at all times.

The stone halls of Darkling Fortress were dim with few windows and scattered torches that lifted the gloom for only a pace or three at a time. The windows offered little relief from the dark, and if gazing out them, only the Betoken Grove and almost encircling Obsidian Chains a tall sharp looking mountain range could be seen. The Betoken Grove was dry, brittle, and winter-like with gnarled, ugly trees marred by magic and disease from ill contained potions. Back and forth the mass of trees swayed on a wind of their own. They created new paths off of the main path that led the unwary to their deaths. Improbable but true, they moved of their own accord, trapped and frustrated within the Obsidian Chains and restricted by magic from the Darkling Fortress and the main road leading to it through the very center of the Betoken Grove. The road through it was straight and wide, and watchers could see an approaching army or single person for miles upon miles before they arrived at the castle.

The castle itself was sky-reaching, obsidian and formidable, if not frightful looking, with the sharp points and glowing windows that looked like ever-watchful eyes in the dark. In the skies above, black thunderous clouds loomed, ever present and accompanied now by the Shroud of Takrah. Below on the ground, between the grove and castle, the earth had been torn and the gaping and glowing red lava beneath made the earth look like it was bleeding. Indeed, every day when the liquid rock cooled forming a scab upon the surface of its rock blood, the top was ripped off viciously by magic from the many mages that resided within the giant castle. The Acolytes had never been taught to be kind to earth, as Elia'ra was an enemy of Takrah.

The giant castle was as large as a city, covering three miles in its expanse. In the shape of a roughhewn square, it held thousands upon thousands of those who worshiped Takrah, were deferential to the High Lord and fought—or waited to fight—for their cause. Only half of their military force had been deployed to deal with the initial attack upon Terahn. While over forty thousand more waited impatiently to kill, maim and murder.

There were men, goblins, orcs, trolls, and created titans. Creatures of all shapes and sizes, as well as walks of life. Clerics, mages, wine makers and embroiders, all of them came from around the reaches of the world, answering the silent call Takrah sent out, luring more followers. Troll tribes from the Blue Mountains, goblins from the Misty Mountains, even elves from the Metalwood forest. Day and night they worked to free the imprisoned Dark Temptress, compelled by the thrall She held over them. With the Nine gone, Her prison was weakened considerably, but still She was contained. So Her followers worked on for Her purpose and cause.

Sumatra passed silently by the almost undetectable guards on his way to the chambers of the High Lord where the meeting would take place. Not many people came here often, mostly just harem girls— particularly Marjoram, a blonde with no scruples and a current favorite of Azer. He took note of the guards silently, checking which were familiar, which were new, and how many weapons they carried. He did this almost without knowing it, a reflex of his that had saved his life more than just a few times.

Two warriors stood guard at a closed door that was heavily braced with metal for fortification. He walked without hesitation towards it, and as expected, they rushed to heave it open for him, for everyone knew of his wrath over even the most menial things.

The door swung aside revealing an even darker space behind it, almost as black as the Abyss from whence Takrah came. He stopped at the doorway letting his orange eyes adjust to the almost impenetrable blackness in the room. Sumatra walked in the instant they had been properly modified to see in the gloom. As soon as both his feet were planted inside the room, dim mage lights appeared at his side, allowing him light to see.

It was not a huge room, but a large one, and private as well—a place only the High Lord was usually allowed. It was bare, he observed with the mage light, all except for a pedestal with a shallow bowl resting upon it. Thick, and saliva-looking liquid filled it three-quarters of the way full, and revolved along the inside of it slowly and inexorably. Sluggishly it moved, as if the effort were almost too much for it. A power emanated from the liquid though, that was ancient and dark. Not only that, it had the feeling of something sacred. Sumatra wondered why he’d never seen it before or why he’d never known of its location.

A shuffling step from his left, pushed aside his pondering, and from his place near the wall, an ancient looking drow shuffled forward, swaddled in black and bright, shining gold robes. This was the High Lord of the Acolytes. After a glance briefly to make sure there were no concealed weapons upon Azer, Sumatra bowed deeply, murmuring words of reverence. Lord Azer nodded, and together they stepped near the bowl upon the pedestal, clearly waiting for the council to join them. The waiting passed with silence, and eventually the council shuffled harshly in, making Sumatra internally wince at the loud, brashness of their footfalls. Especially near a holy device.

There were seven of them: first minister, minister of defense, admiral of the military, the three judges, and the adviser to the High Lord. The current High Lord had selected them all, but they trusted and admired Sumatra as well. Which was good, he hated to have to relieve them all of their duties and start off with a fresh, untested council.

They, like Sumatra felt, wore faces of curiosity to be summoned to the High Lord’s personal living area. They had never been here before. Indeed, the only people who had were the past High Lords and whomever they took to bed with them at night. Sumatra grinned wryly at the thought.

Lord Azer opened his old mouth and began to speak in an equally ancient voice that still held some of its former resonance and power. Sumatra held his eyes locked on the High Lord and the man was slightly, but visibly disconcerted by the heavy gaze Sumatra placed upon him with his hell-fire eyes.

Acolyte Council, I have called you all here for a summit, not requested on my behalf but on the behalf of Takrah. He whispered Her name quietly in reverence to it. Sumatra as well as the council ducked their heads in acknowledgment of Her name and greatness. Sethos alone spoke up after they lifted their heads once more. High Lord, why are we in this dim room? If we are to obey Her summons mustn’t we journey straight away to the Siriol Karma to meet with Her?

Marion Sethos, minister of defense, a normally immobile and intractable personality shivered at the thought of seeing his deity once more. Sumatra looked at him with well-disguised disgust. What a pathetic worm the man became at just the thought of seeing Takrah. Sumatra had not seen Her personally, but he knew he wouldn’t be reduced to the pitiful state that these men around him were in. He wondered briefly though if his celibacy would aid or hinder him against the effect of Takrah. He hoped aid, and then placed the thought aside as the High Lord answered the minister’s question.

The magic of the Siriol Karma is weakened, but She cannot cross its barrier because the much of the magic containing Her in there is still enforced, though the deities have been sent back to their realms. Lord Azer paused for a breath and Osiris Krawl, the first minister, took advantage of the moment to speak.

Osiris’s voice was as rough as gravel and held a minimally hidden rebuke in it. He, like the others all around Sumatra, was as ancient as the High Lord was. Osiris looked briefly at Sumatra, not concealing his look of envy and anger. Sumatra had come to power late in the game compared to the first minister. Osiris wished Sumatra had never