Portal to the Gods

By Scott Spangler

The Gods of the Upper and the Gods of the Nether have been fighting their deadly wars for all eternity, and always with humankind stuck in the middle. But this time is different.

Tiberius, The Hope of the World, is dead and the holy fortress of Athol Myr is under siege. Should it crumble, the fabled portal residing deep within it will fall into the vile hands of the Demon Lords. If the portal is lost, so is all hope for the survival of humanity. But Athol Myr's army is defeated and all of the prophets are dead... save one.

One soldier escaped the slaughter on the plains of Athol Myr - a lone cavalryman known as Griff. As orcs, goblins, and all things evil rampage the land unchecked, crushing all who rise against them, what difference can a single person make? Time is running out as Griff learns that there is only one way to save the world - he must bring Tiberius back from the dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Spangler
• Release date: Jun 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458097279

Scott Spangler

Scott is 45 years old and lives near Kansas City. He wrote the first book of his fantasy series, "Portal to the Gods" in 2005 and has recently published the third book in the Portal series, "Dark Reign." He is also the author of "The Demon Hunter: 21 Days". He is currently working to complete his zombie apocalypse book, "PerfectTown." Scott welcomes comments on his work at: [e-mail]

Book preview

Portal To The Gods

Scott Spangler

Copyright 2011 by Scott Spangler

Smashwords Edition

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Other Books by Scott Spangler

The Demon Hunter Series

The Demon Hunter: 21 Days

The Demon Hunter: Retribution - Forthcoming

Portal to the Gods Series

Portal to the Gods

The Other Side of Existence

Dark Reign - Forthcoming

*****

*****

Prologue

Foreboding and doom, the prophet Guilbert mumbled, the words slipping disdainfully past his lips to dwell upon the still air. He stood peering out the tower window bathed in the morning’s pink rays as the sun slowly rose from its slumber above the city’s distant eastern walls.

The Tower of the Rising Moon was perched at the edge of the Kavendar Acropolis, protruding from the northern end of the Temple of Mol that overlooked the center of the city proper. Despite its dense population and sprawling mass Kavendar seemed miniature enough from the plateau, let alone from the seventh floor of the tower. The tower was set far enough back from the plateau’s edge that the marble columns of the exterior walkway of Mol’s temple could barely be seen if one leaned outward past the window’s threshold to stare directly downward. But the prophet had no interest in the activities of the god-king’s temple, nor of Aragon’s capital city itself for that matter.

His hands clasped firmly behind his back, Guilbert turned away from the arched window to resume his pacing. These last few days it was a wonder that a trail had not worn into the gray stone floor from his ceaseless restlessness. He made three or four turns of the room and then returned to the window. The hood of his faded brown robe hid his unruly mass of gray hair, but the clouded white lens of his dead left eye betrayed his identity like a beacon in the night. His vision wasn’t all that great with his good eye and even if it was the middle of the Aragon’s spring Festival of Colors, he likely couldn’t make out many details of what lay beyond the window other than blue sky, wispy clouds, and a convoluted blur of movement on the ground far below. But if his vision was poor, his supernatural sight was stronger than ever.

He trembled. It was an uncontrollable bodily reaction that had just recently manifested in the wake of all that was happening. They were in tremendous danger. He could no longer say with any certainty how many prophets were left. He had seen Nevin’s twisted and broken body with his own eye and had heard of Livia’s murder from a reliable source. It was said that she had been found impaled upon the city wall in Giron’s northern city of Elwind. The city guard still puzzled over how she had gotten there and, furthermore, how a six-foot ash branch had pierced solid stone nearly as thick to pin her body there.

Athos should have arrived in Kavendar a week prior to Guilbert’s own arrival, and yet there was no sign of his fellow prophet. He feared the worst. Athos never missed an appointed meeting and he was certainly never late. If he had been slain as well then that left only Sadina... and Dartain, although the latter had always gone his own way. The last he had heard, Sadina was somewhere in northern Amador. He feared for her safety, but if she was still alive there was nothing he could currently do to help her.

The ability to foresee and pronounce prophecy was a gift from the gods, but at times like this it seemed more a curse. He knew what was coming. A chain of events had already been set in motion and for the first time in his long history he doubted that humankind would survive it. He couldn’t fathom why the gods had not allowed him to see things sooner, and for that he was greatly troubled. Was it too late? Even now he awaited an audience with King Oleonis. He had to be warned - they all had to be warned.

Lost in the depths of his mind he failed to notice when his short breaths turned to visible wisps as the room’s temperature suddenly plummeted. The chill snaking down his spine alerted his senses, prompting his dead white eye to rotate instinctively toward the room’s interior. Papers on his writing desk halfway across the room rustled and rose up into the air as a concentrated stream of arctic wind slithered across the room like a serpent, casting aside the late summer heat. The wind was a living thing that spun along the floor at the room’s perimeter, circling faster and faster as it closed in around him. For a moment he considered diving through the window - better to splatter against the cobbled city street below than to confront his fate here - but he held fast.

I wondered when you would come, he remarked dryly, his voice steady despite the icy terror suddenly encasing his bones. The chill wind increased in intensity, whipping itself into a frenzied state as he turned to face his assassin. So you play your hand at last. His good eye scanned the shadows, finally locking onto a smoldering set of blood-red eyes peering out from the darkness.

He could only gasp as the wind coiled upward around his body, constricting tighter and tighter upon his neck. His face reddened into a deep shade of purple until finally a sickening crunch announced his demise - his head cocked sideways and backward in a ghastly, inhuman display. The wind ceased abruptly, allowing the prophet’s corpse to crumple in a heap to the floor. And then there was stillness with only scattered papers drifting like floating feathers silently to the floor.

*****

The Serenity Garden was never the same from day to day, often changing from one minute to the next. The only constant was the polished stone path winding its way through the garden's seemingly limitless expanse. On this day the path existed amid the bright red and purple blooms of Lover's Breath, stretching past several intricately-carved stone benches strategically placed near babbling brooks and gently flowing fountains. The flowers stretched out like fields, broken only by low, neatly-trimmed boxwood hedgerows. There were other flowers and blooming shrubs present - roses, petunias, and August Blossoms - but Miryet had always been enamored with Lover's Breath, so when she came here that was what she saw.

Smoothing her gown, she took a seat at a contoured stone bench with images of scrolling vines etched into its back. A flowering dogwood tree in full bloom overhung the bench, offering comforting shade had she needed it. She raised her eyes to the sky and sighed. She wouldn't allow herself to be depressed by the ugly gray and black clouds that hovered oppressively over her otherwise dreamily picturesque scene. Interlocking her fingers in her lap, she closed her eyes. The fragrance from the Lover's Breath wafted strongly to her senses and she drank it in, savoring its sweet aroma. The brook ran behind the bench, trickling gently over a bed of smooth river stone to add pleasant sound to her mentally-created environment. The only things missing were birds.

She had no sooner formulated the thought in her head, when a small flight of red finches alighted on a blooming line of redbud trees a little way down the path. Their musical chirps, combined with the brook, formed the most pleasant symphony. The garden certainly was efficient. She would have preferred to feel the warm sensation of bright sunlight on her skin, but she knew that was beyond even the garden's ability to produce. The weather had a tendency to echo her husband's emotions. That wasn't always the case, but it happened more often than not. He wasn't the creator - even he wasn't presumptuous enough to make that claim - but he was the leader. He was the first, or at least the first of all who remained. And he wasn't happy. That much was evident by the seemingly impenetrable blanket of gray perpetually enshrouding Zarmora.

She would have to speak to him sternly about his incessant dark moods as of late, but although she loved the thick-headed lout dearly, she had more important matters to attend to at the moment. She began to clear her mind. The chorus of birds sang in harmony and she couldn't resist taking a quick, one-eyed peek before getting back on task. The song stopped the instant her eyelid lifted. She beheld at least thirteen of her little feathered friends perched throughout the garden, all gawking quizzically at her. She closed her eye again and their chirping song resumed immediately. She smiled. The garden certainly enjoyed its little jokes.

Clearing her mind was easy, which was why she usually came here to perform this task. She pushed away everything except what her senses brought to her mind at this very moment. Like a seamstress, she spun them neatly together - the smells, the sounds - until she had a mental void that was to her liking. She allowed her consciousness to enter it. At once, the pathways to the universe became hers to explore. It took little time to get her bearings as she made her way to the mortal world. Other matters had kept her from this activity for far too long. Yesterday had been her first trip in weeks and she had encountered serious difficulty, which caused her great concern. As the world began to flash before her, laid out like an enormous map, she wondered if she might encounter the same problems on this go round. Perhaps the previous day had merely been a fluke.

Her consciousness gracefully soared across the ocean like a hawk riding the upper-level thermals with its wings spread wide. She came in from the southeast and soon spied land - the golden shores of Illum, upon which crashed the white-capped breakers of late summer. Dozens of ships navigated around the peninsula - both many-masted giants sporting acres of sail cloth and smaller fishing vessels. A continuous stream of traffic sailed in and out of the wide bay that led to the port of Wuster, Illum's capitol city. She glided over the beaches, bypassing the city. Once inland, she turned toward the north, passing over leagues of rolling, tree-covered hills. The mighty Sardis River appeared, cutting its eternal imprint as it flowed southward from the Septre Mountains. She dove toward it, traversing it like a highway in the opposite direction as the flat-bottomed river barges carrying their trade goods to the southern cities.

Not far beyond the Aragon border, the landscape changed dramatically. The hills gave way to a vast expanse of farmland, green with crops, and waving tall grass prairie. The hefty spires and high walls of the city of Kavendar appeared over the horizon, bright in the afternoon sunlight. She came upon it quickly, circling once, and then diving in for a closer look. It was as she had feared. There was no sign of the prophet. She should have been easily able to detect his presence, regardless of the city's other half million inhabitants. But he simply wasn't there. She had encountered the same results on the previous day in Kandola and Giron. They were all mysteriously disappearing. There had been seven prophets. Recently Borman the Elder had passed on, leaving only six, but she had been aware of his passing. She had even offered him comfort on his long journey to the afterlife. But he had been the oldest by several decades, in fact, the last remainder of a prior generation. The disappearance of the others, however, was a quite different matter. Guilbert of Kavendar was one of the strongest and most reliable. If he had been slain the loss would be a tremendous blow.

She circled the city a final time before speeding off toward the north. There were still two remaining prophets. She would seek Sadina in Amador, northwest of Durwick. Sadina had been the last prophet to which she had spoken, so Miryet felt relatively certain she had not been compromised as well. If Sadina was lost, then that left only Dartain. She had little desire to deal with him, even if he could be found. He was less than openly receptive to the gift, if not outright belligerent about it. Dartain was a thorn with which she was in no mood to deal, regardless of grim necessity. She was relieved to feel Sadina's presence even before crossing the border between Aragon and Amador.

She swooped low, gliding past several scattered villages and intermittent farm houses. She veered around a dilapidated old barn, swept past a stretch of greenish-yellow, waving grassland, and came upon a rutted, old, dirt road. She banked hard to the left, following the road toward the west as it lazily made its way toward the mountains in the far off distance, and came upon the caravan suddenly, shooting past it like an arrow. There were at least ten covered wagons and several rough-looking flat beds lumbering awkwardly up the road, loaded for bear with all manners of merchandise - pots, pans, furniture, and rugs. In her brief glimpse, she had seen marble and bronze artwork only partially concealed by canvas.

A hundred yards beyond the head of the caravan she pulled into a steep climb. Rotating one-hundred-eighty degrees, she shifted into a dive. Nearing the ground she leveled off, decreasing her speed to approach the caravan at a leisurely pace. She passed a vanguard of several mounted men wearing leather breastplates, conical steel caps, and long spears resting across their laps. They chatted idly - one in particular making wild gestures with his free hand. Miryet assumed he was telling a joke, judging from the uproarious laughter with which the others responded. A fat and balding man drove the lead wagon. From the fine silken robe and glittering jeweled rings he wore, she took him to be the merchant - the owner of the many goods the caravan was carrying to market, most likely in one of the river cities such as Elwind or Boll Rapids. Perhaps they were even journeying so far as Runo, given the heavy load they carried.

Next to the merchant, sat a plump and haughty creature that Miryet knew could only be his wife. No other man would have sat still listening to the tongue-lashing she was giving him at the moment. The resigned look on his face not only told the tale of a history of such verbal reprimands, but promised a long future of them as well. Her consciousness hovered in the midst of the caravan, darting in and out of covered wagons like a hummingbird. She glided down the line of spear-bearing footmen who flanked the wagon train, finally coming upon the person whom she sought. She slid gracefully between two wagons, the horses of the trailing wagon whinnying as if they knew an otherworldly presence was among them, coming to hover above the driver's bench of an uncovered flat-bed wagon. The wagon's side railings bulged precariously outward, overburdened as it was with sealed crates and ale kegs.

Sadina sat upright, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes focused straight ahead. She was perched rigidly on the hard wooden seat, as far from the driver as the seat's width would allow. The driver was a filthy specimen. His gray-streaked hair was wild, his worn tunic dirty, and tobacco juice dripped down his chin. Every few moments, he would lean over the edge of the cart to spit. Sadina averted her gaze each time he did so. It was a long trek from Durwick to Runo and Miryet almost felt sorry for Sadina for not having been able to obtain better travel arrangements. Almost. She was a prophet, not a princess, so she could make due. Of course, she looked somewhat like a princess. It wasn't just the pretty dress and bright auburn hair that tumbled freely over her shoulders, but it was more in her regal composure. In all her life she had never been rich, but had certainly learned to play the part. It served her purposes to do so. After all, Kings didn't take counsel from beggars. Miryet edged her consciousness in a little more closely. Almost immediately, Sadina's hand went to her temple. She could feel a presence, even if she wasn't yet sure what exactly it was.

Sadina, Miryet called out to her.

The girl couldn't hear the words, of course, but such an effort would facilitate the process. Sure enough, Sadina's eyes widened as a sudden realization gripped her. She shot a quick glance toward the driver, her countenance becoming briefly tainted with disgust. She looked away, closing her eyes tightly. Her hands shifted from her lap to her thighs. She smoothed her dress and then placed a hand on each knee. Already Miryet could feel her mind becoming clearer. It was as if a thick veil of separation was slowly being pulled away. In a few seconds they would be in full conversation.

There was a loud crackle, followed by an echoing thunder. Sadina had no inkling of it, but it was deafening to Miryet. Determined to make contact with Sadina, Miryet held her ground. The thunder erupted again, this time joined by a hollow-sounding hiss that could only be strong winds. Miryet found her grip slipping. She made a final effort to retain her position, before being yanked roughly backward. Faster than she had come upon the caravan, she was pulled away from it. In a blur it retreated into the distance, became merely a pinprick, and then was lost from sight. The ground appeared to flatten out the higher she rose into the air, then was hidden from view altogether as she passed through layer after layer of thick clouds. The blue sky gave way to star-filled blackness. There was a blinding flash and then all color vanished.

Miryet opened her eyes in time to see a vicious bolt of jagged lightning rip across the sky. The canopy of the dogwood, which was no longer flowering, did little to protect her from the heavy downpour that came at her from an angle. The once beautiful line of redbud trees had vanished and the Lover's Breath was rapidly fading as well. In their place, snaked tendrils of gray and white mist. Before long, all that was left was the path, winding through a fog-shrouded expanse of nothingness. Clenching her teeth, she rose from the bench and stomped up the path. She'd had enough of this. It had been some time since the sun had so much as peeked through the clouds that had been steadily building for months. Apparently this day had seen that trend come to a head.

She passed through the fancy wrought-iron gate at the entrance to the garden, crossing the wide central courtyard without a glance at the enormous statue of her husband capping the crystal fountain in its center. Gale winds and torrential stinging rain assaulted her as she picked her way through the columned walkway that led up to the Stairway of Champions. Invisible fingers sought to bar her progress up the stairway, turning to blunt fists of wind the higher she climbed. She halted before the arched entrance to the hall, pressing a shoulder against the large hammered bronze door as the wind made a desperate and final attempt to tear her away and off into oblivion. The battle lost, the wind made a slow and quiet retreat as the door swung open with a soft creak. She paused a moment to shake off some of the saturation and then continued into the building taking long and determined steps across the ancient tiles toward the Hall of Kings.

She paused inside the arched doorway to the hall, seeking out her husband. Even in the storm’s gloom, the Hall of Kings was magnificent with a ceiling rising up hundreds of feet and topped off by a marvelous gold-capped dome, from which dangled numerous colorful pennants all in blue, violet, and red. Fantastic tapestries canvassed the walls on three sides, depicting exotic scenes of man and beast, of god and titan, back to the dawn of time. The fourth wall, directly opposite the great arched entrance, was the greatest of all - sporting a breathtaking crystal waterfall that flowed mysteriously upward to disappear into a white mist near the golden ceiling. Fifteen enormous marble columns descended from the ceiling to the tiled floor in a large semi-circle around a fabulously-carved golden throne sitting upon a raised dais. Ornate carvings and sculptures spiraled around each column as high as the eye could see. Into the base of each column was carved a luxurious reclining seat, replete with silken cushions and pillows.

What in the name of Aphid’s forked tongue is going on here? she demanded as she approached the golden throne, whereupon sat Mol, King of the Gods. Don’t you think we’ve had enough of this?

The king lifted his head slightly to gaze upon the First-wife, who stood soaked with arms crossed and foot tapping. Women were women, be they god or mortal. His eyes burned bright red as he regarded her briefly, turning his attention back to a weathered map floating in the air before him.

We are lost, he mumbled finally, "lost."

The First-wife’s annoyance immediately dissipated as she shuffled forward so she could see what hovered above the map. Faint, shimmering, three-dimensional images crowded the map’s surface. She recognized the sprawling mountain range, the crystal clear lake, and the massive forest - she had seen them all a thousand times before. The fortress was always more difficult to pinpoint, standing firmly nestled in the shadows of the looming mountains. She could tell right away that something was out of the ordinary. The normally serene landscape was littered with thousands of corpses. Tens of thousands of shadowed creatures moved among them like scurrying roaches.

Mol waved his hand across the map and a solitary image spun up into the air a hand’s-breadth above the others. It was still connected to the map by a thin strand of light, but was magnified so that its flickering picture was more visible. It was an image of a dead warrior, but was immediately apparent that he was no ordinary soldier.

The First-wife squinted into the image, gasping softly. Is that...

Yes, Mol finished for her.

The warrior lay amid a heap of bloody and disemboweled corpses, regal even in death’s embrace. He was a massive specimen in a tomb of golden armor. A great conical war helm with a large square faceplate and long flowing blue plume concealed his features, marred by a long crooked arrow that protruded from one of the eye slits. An enormous double-edged sword rose up from his chest, stained blood-red to the hilt.

Tiberius has fallen, Mol said simply. Our champion is defeated. He waved the map away. It shimmered brightly before blinking out of existence.

"What does this mean?’ the First-wife nervously inquired, suddenly alarmed by her husband’s overtly melancholy mood.

Ah, Dear Miryet, the future? Mol frowned as he thought for a moment. Uncertain.

He snapped his fingers and a tiny white light appeared in the arched doorway, buzzing up to within a few feet of the throne. The light took the shape of a tiny person with intricate butterfly wings, the wings beating slowly and effortlessly as the fairy hovered in place awaiting orders from the king of the gods.

Assemble the council please, Elendria, Mol directed.

Right away, her soft musical voice answered before she buzzed away, leaving a glittering trail of crystal white sparkles in her wake.

I must see, Miryet said somberly.

Mol stood, extending his hand toward her as he descended the dais steps. The First-wife was not a queen, holding no seat upon the council, but she had been instrumental in the selection of Tiberius. In many ways he was as a son to her - if a human could be such to a god. Mol trusted her more readily than half the council and would certainly not lessen his opinion of her as a result of Tiberius’s failure. She took his hand and was suddenly thrust into darkness. When light returned - a dim, diffuse light, seemingly swallowed by fog and eerie gray mist - she found herself standing in a very different place. Gone were the marble columns and upward-flowing waterfall - instead, she stood at the shore of a lake at the foot of the massive fortress, Athol Myr.

She stared up at the obsidian pyramid fortress with its different levels of battlements rising from the wide bottom to midway to a sharp peak which seemed poised to pierce the clouds themselves. Tiny specks could be seen manning the ramparts, their armor glinting despite the gloomy weather, motionless as was everything else in this frozen glimpse of another world’s reality. The fortress squatted atop an island of solid rock in the middle of a fathomless mountain lake with only one bridged approach spanning the water. The bridge led from the southern bank of the lake to another, much smaller island upon which a central barbican towered. The barbican was formidable itself, but was infinitely dwarfed by the looming fortress. From the barbican, the bridge took a forty-five degree right turn, feeding into the tremendous main gate of the pyramid fortress. A wide plain opened up in front of the lake, stretching to the edge of the seemingly endless Great Forest. The Kazarant Mountain range rose up behind Athol Myr.

She turned away from the fortress, coming face-to-face with her husband who waited patiently for her senses to adjust to the change. Side-by-side they picked their way across the battlefield, side-stepping mutilated corpses and the ravenous creatures that had created them - motionless and frozen in time. She paused to inspect several, her lips curling in disgust.

Filthy beasts, she spat. We should send a plague to wipe their nasty hooves from this sacred ground.

Mol shook his head adamantly. No, our nemesis would only return the same. Would you see the cities of Durwick, Runo, and Kavendar emptied of life? But they would push it a step farther, forcing us to respond in kind. There would soon be nothing left worth fighting for."

She knew he was right. There were rules set down by the creator that were meant to maintain the balance. They didn’t always make sense and were often damnable and frustrating, but they were rules nonetheless. But why would they make a move on the holy fortress, she inquired, when they have never done so before?

I suppose that is what we shall have to determine. Mol glanced back at the fortress - its black stone fading into the shadows of the mountain. His gaze seemed to penetrate straight through those impenetrable walls to something at its very heart. "But I would presume to guess that the Portal to the Gods is their sole objective."

They continued through the carnage of the great battle, finally coming to stand before the wrecked body of their fallen champion. Miryet stared down at his crimson-stained body with pity in her eyes. Although they had never met in the human sense, he was as a son to her. Despite the impending disastrous consequences of his failure, she grieved over his loss. But her sadness was brief as the even stronger emotion of anger shoved it roughly aside. Her gaze rose to the shrouded figure in a ragged black cloak standing frozen not far beyond where Tiberius lay.

So Sepulda has risen again, she growled, indicating the dark figure who had slain Tiberius.

So it would seem, Mol replied thoughtfully.

This certainly complicated matters. She had actually been intending to seek out her husband in response to another matter. It now seemed certain that the two issues were tied together. I’m afraid we have more trouble. Are you aware of the disappearance of our prophets?

Mol had been studying the golden corpse, deep in thought. At the mention of the prophets his head snapped upward. His gaze briefly roved to the ominous shrouded figure and then back to his wife. I was aware of Borman the Elder’s passing.

Miryet sighed. He was King of the Gods - he should be more aware of something this important. Livia, Nevin, Athos, and Guilbert... four of the six prophets have been murdered and one is missing. I had managed to make contact with Sadina, but your little outburst interrupted before we could link.

You’re certain they’ve been murdered?

Either that, or they’ve simply fallen from the face of the world.

Sepulda is responsible? Mol asked. She was well aware that he already knew the answer, but was subconsciously looking for confirmation from her.

I have yet to determine that for certain, but my initial response is yes.

Of course, who else would it be? he grumbled. Blistering piss, but they’ve managed to cripple us with their first stroke. How can we guide our pawns without the prophets? They’ve reduced us to relying upon useless signs and portents, which are always dismissed as chance or mere coincidence.

She knew that he could bend the rules and attempt to communicate directly, but in those cases the recipient never managed to understand, often falling into madness. The human mind was such a frail thing, easily breaking like an egg given certain circumstances. She knew that because her husband had tried often enough.

The missing prophet, Mol reflected, Let me guess... Dartain? Something in the distance past her husband had caught her eye and she failed to answer. Miryet?

Yes, yes, Dartain.

That rebellious thorn has somehow learned to ignore our call, he growled, but I plan to deal with his constant insubordination.

Miryet nodded toward the forest. What do you make of that?

Mol turned in the direction she had indicated. In the distance, near the wooded outskirts, was a lone soldier. Whereas the rest of Athol Myr’s army had either perished, or else been bloodied and chased back into the fortress, this fellow had apparently been cut-off. Unable to pass through the enemy lines, he had chosen to flee to the forest. Sparing a final glance at their fallen hero, they crossed the battlefield quickly to where the solitary figure stood frozen.

He wears the armor of a cavalryman, Miryet surmised, Who is he?

Mol closed his eyes for a moment. Griff, his lips seemed to say of their own accord.

Miryet looked at her husband. Do you think we could make contact with him? Perhaps use him to find Dartain?

The god-king shrugged. We are left with the same problem. We’d be as well to try contacting one of the southern kings.

The First-wife thought about it for a moment, her gaze roving toward the forest. I could dispatch the faun, she offered.

A hint of doubt flashed in Mol’s eyes. The faun were perhaps the only creatures in the mortal world, aside from the now-extinct centaur, capable of inherently interpreting the gods’ wishes. Perhaps it was the creator’s ironic sense of humor that had made them - such brilliant and unnatural perceptive ability combined with such overwhelming irresponsibility. They were one of the mortal world’s great contrasts and that sad internal conflict had all but destroyed them as an immortal race.

I know their reputation, she pleaded, but what other choice do we have? Sadina is half a world away. Besides, we’ll need her to rally the southern kingdoms. I assume you will want Dartain to track down Antonius? In answer to her husband’s continued silence she added, They have been waiting for their chance at redemption.

Mol nodded finally, parting with a resigned sigh. "Yes, I suppose we don’t have any other choice. But we can’t have the faun running around the human settlements - that would never go over."

That was a sad truth. Since the Great Reckoning a thousand years ago the different races