The Four Powers

By J.A. Cummings

Centuries ago, the Lodestone was split by the gods, sundering the power of magic into elemental quadrants. Each elemental quarter of the Lodestone was hidden in Watchtowers located at the cardinal directions, and human tribes formed around each Watchtower, taking on the qualities and powers of their elements. Pedar Tolris is the second son of the Chieftain of the Water Tribe, and he is a self-made dragon expert. His knowledge is needed when the Dragon Council sets out to reunite the Lodestone. He is chosen as the Dragon Bard when he is merged with the soul shard of the dragon Xaramuth. Along with representatives of the other Powers, he sets out to prevent the Dragon Council from destroying the natural order of magic by re-uniting the Lodestone and effectively ending the world. The fight centers on the mountain Shadowtop, where the dead dragon goddess Xetith lives again, tearing the fabric of time and gathering the Dragon Council and the elemental powers in her claws.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.A. Cummings
• Release date: Jul 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370090358

J.A. Cummings

J. A. Cummings was born in Flint, Michigan. Her interest in writing began at an early age. This interest was aided and abetted by her family, including her maternal grandfather, Spiritualist medium Rev. Frank Pitkin, who introduced her to the typewriter in 1974. She is an historian and anthropologist by training, receiving a degree in Interdisciplinary Humanities (History, Anthropology and Spanish) from the Michigan State University Honors College. This broad-based knowledge of the human condition, past and present, colors her writing to this day.Ms. Cummings still resides in Michigan.

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THE FOUR POWERS

J. A. Cummings

Published by Irish Horse Productions

Distributed by Smashwords

Copyright 2016 J.A. Cummings

Cover design by Chantel Cummings

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Part One

Prologue

The first omen came as a lightning bolt, flashing blue-green above the mountains east of Crown's Peak. It hit on a clear midday without a cloud in sight, and it struck the rocky crown of Mount Shadowtop with a mighty roar. The rock split with a crack that was heard for miles, creating a fissure that raced toward the town while the mystified residents looked on.

The crack reached as far as Old Morvyn's field, stopping abruptly as if it respected the rickety fence that marked his property line. The old man gaped at the darkness beyond the sundered stone, and when he saw something move, he ran screaming to the barn, abandoning his plow oxen in his panic. No sign of the oxen was ever found, not so much as a drop of blood upon the clumped soil.

The shock was too much for Old Morvyn, and his heart gave out halfway across the barnyard. He was the first casualty of the rift.

At first, people thought it was just one of those freakish moments of nature. There were secrets about the natural world that nobody really knew, and when even the druids were at a loss to explain what had happened, well...it was just best to stop thinking about it. Morvyn was buried next to his late wife in the city boneyard, his son sold off his land, and life in Crown's Peak went on.

The second omen was twelve nights later, when the crack created by the lightning storm began to shimmer and heave. Heat waves distorted the air over the fissure all the way from Morvyn's fence to the unseen peak of Shadowtop, and deep inside the earth, a fire danced like reveling demons. From behind the wavering wall of hot air, a murmuring voice could be heard, a basso rumble that chanted in a language nobody knew. The city folk pressed Mayor Pelan Hasur for answers, and without a clue, he turned to the only source of knowledge he could think of: the elves from the distant land of Nirieth.

A party of elves set out from their capital city of Sirithor, with a wise she-elf at the head and a trio of warriors to protect her. The night they arrived, the third omen came. They were just making themselves comfortable in the Dancing Ram, the most sumptuous inn in Crown's Peak, when Jemi Maverin came running, bawling that a three-headed lamb had been born in his father's flock.

The visitors and the mayor, who was deeply afraid now, went to see the unfortunate creature. When they reached the lambing barn, the newborn monster was struggling to gain its feet, aggrieved bleating coming from all three throats while its six eyes rolled and its six nostrils flared in distress. The ewe that had birthed the thing kicked it away, and it landed at the she-elf's feet in a grotesque lump. It raised its heads once, gave a very un-sheep-like roar, and fell dead, a long serpentine tongue extended from the central mouth.

The she-elf looked to the mayor and said, There is nothing I can do to help you. This is from wild magic.

The elves turned and left the barn, and it was very clear that they were leaving town. Mayor Hasur followed them, wringing his pudgy hands, his rings clinking together in his anxiety. But what do we do?

You need to unite the Four Powers to quell this magic, she told him. Seek the Guardians.

Mayor Hasur stopped in his tracks, stunned into stasis by her words. He whispered, The Guardians? But the Guardians...they...

He didn't need to finish his thought. Everyone knew the stories. The Guardians, locked away in their separate towers, were violently opposed to visitors. Disturbing them was certain death. The mayor knew that the call for help would cost the messenger's life, just as surely as he knew not one person who would be brave enough or selfless enough to make that sacrifice for the good of the town.

Margaethe Hasur took her husband's arm. What do we do?

He turned to her and thought like a politician. We...we cover it up. We just bury the crack. Put the wild magic back into the ground. That will do it. We'll just fill in the crack. It can't go all that deep. Can it?

She looked unconvinced, but she said, No. Of course not.

Now, it doesn't take a genius to know that a crack in a mountain is not the same as a bad potato. It can't be covered so easily, and so it was with the fissure in Shadowtop. A gang of men worked all day and night, shoveling dirt and gravel into the crack, only to have the hungry mountain swallow everything they offered as if they had done no work at all.

Desperate now, Mayor Hasur sent out a call for wise men and magic users, warriors and witches, to come from all four kingdoms and solve his thorny problem. That's when I came into the picture.

My name is Pedar, and I'm a bard. I was there when the Great Schism ended and the dragons came to call.

This is that story.

#

Friend, I see that you are a visitor and new to these shores. Before I tell this tale, there are things that you should know.

This world is known as Israna, named after the goddess of the land. The people refer to her as the Great Lady, partly out of respect and partly to avoid confusion, since the appropriation of her name has created the potential for some misunderstandings. The Great Lady is the matron goddess, from whom all good things flow. She is wedded to the All-Father, the great god who is the male half of the Great Union.

The good people of Israna are very excited by titles, as you will soon note.

There are other gods, as well, children of the Great Lady and the All-Father, and they are all powerful in their own right. There is Hollen, the holy blacksmith, god of rocks and mountains, and he makes his home upon the very same Shadowtop we have discussed before. He is the particular enemy of Xymocothus, the god worshipped by the dragons of the Dread Sea. This will be important information for you to know. There is also Selenna, the goddess of the moon, the stars and the tides, and a particular favorite of fishermen and navigators. There are others, too, and as we encounter them, I will tell you more.

Selenna is the patron goddess of the Dread Sea Islands, which is the home of the Guardian of the West. The Islands are governed by the Water Tribe and their jovial chieftain, Rilan Tolris of the Steady Arm, Terror of Sea Spawn and Master of the Keep at Westgate. He is also my father. I am the second son born to him and the Lady Alysa, his wife. My older brother, who was a mighty warrior of great renown, came to grief in the jaws of the dragon Xiyum, may his name be cursed. The whole tribe mourns him, and when my family and I honored him by scarring our bodies with grief-marks, many of the people who had no such obligation did so as well. Such is the love he inspired in his people, who have lost the man who would have been their able leader in years to come. While his killer lives, it is believed that we cannot speak his name again, lest we weaken my brother’s vengeful ghost by stealing his power. Some day, when Xiyum has been defeated at last, I will once again be able to shout his name from the highest mast in Rilan's fleet, for he deserves to be remembered in song and ode and tale.

But I digress.

There are four Tribelands in Israna, and a central meeting place called the Free Zone. I have told you a little about the Islands, my home. The northern tribeland is called Lusien, and its chieftain, Alach the Great, holds the North Watch. The Earth Tribe is blessed and burdened with earth magics, as well as an inhospitable climate and dour personalities. Truthfully, I have never met anyone from the Earth Tribe who wasn't stolid, dull and boring, but I'm sure they have unfavorable words for my folk, too. Lusien is a huge land, wide and expansive, and it manages to border all of the other Tribelands. They fancy themselves to be the greatest land of all, but as you can imagine, the rest of us beg to differ. They are doughty warriors, though, and they boast a cavalry like no other. It is well to respect a Northern rider, for they are fierce.

As you have noticed, the Tribelands are divided according to the cardinal directions. Before I tell you about the other lands, I should tell you that each direction has its own character and its own magic. There was once a time when magic was all one, when each magic user was able to cast fire and water and air and earth magic willy-nilly, mixed together in one powerful stew. That magic grew too strong, though, and the All-Father found it necessary to split the powers, lest his human children find a way to make themselves immortal through their sorceries. They came close, too – one magic user named Exenor had combined the essence of each element into one mighty lump called the Lodestone, and he was learning how to master it as one entity. Through his magical efforts, he made himself a god.

This did not please the gods who had come before. In retaliation and to keep other humans from elevating themselves above their fate, with a mighty blow of his great axe, the All-Father sundered the Lodestone into its four elemental components, and these scattered to their natural poles: earth to the north, water to the west, fire to the south, and air to the east. Where the four comets landed, a tower sprang up by the power of Israna herself, and each tower was put in the care of an immortal Guardian.

I will tell you more about the Guardians later.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes. The Tribelands. The southern tribe, the Fire Tribe, makes its home in a vast landscape of rock and sand and hot desert air known as the Barren. How they survive in such blasted terrain is a mystery to me, but survive they have, and well. The Fire Tribe may not have much in the way of agriculture, but their lands enclose the only diamond mines in Israna, and this has made them rich. Many strong enchantments require diamond dust, and the strongest require diamonds as focus stones. If the rest of us want to use our magic to its fullest extent, then we must be nice to the Fire Tribe, for we need their diamonds. The Dread Islands, where my tribe lives, is a four-day sail to the coast of the Barren, and we have a lively trade with them. We provide them with coral and sapphires for their sorcery, entertainers for their courts, and the bounty of the sea. In return, they provide us with diamonds and salt. It's not really fair – the buggers have diamonds and salt, the two greatest commodities in the land. I always knew that the Great Lady loved them best.

I'm laughing, my friend. You can't hear it, but I am.

The Air Tribe lives in the easternmost land, called the Avalene. I have met a few representatives from the Air tribe, and they are beautiful and lithe, both male and female. Their stronghold is in a place called the East March, and I know little more about them. They are secretive, and dream-starred, and more than a little mad, I think. It's no surprise that the elves choose to make their home in the Avalene, clustering together around the elven capital, the already-mentioned bastion of Sirithor, the gem of the Kingdom of Nirieth.

Yes, we have elves. We also have fae, halflings, gnomes and dwarves, who are full citizens in this world. Israna also has orcs, goblins, nameless beasts, monsters of various descriptions, and of course dragons, may they be cursed. Each of these latter groups have their own centers of population, their own gods, and their own opinions about magic and how it should be used. They are subjugated, though, to the might of my people, mankind, and I care little about them. They are enemies and obstacles, nothing more. Let other bards tell their stories. To me, they are worthy only as trophies.

Harsh? Yes, I suppose so. I won't apologize.

The last thing that I will tell you about the Tribelands is that the four capitals sprang up around the Watchtowers. Initially, the strongest warriors of each tribe set up camps there to defend the Guardians from those who wished to reunite the Lodestone, who initially were many, inspired by the successes of Exenor and desiring divinity of their own. Camp followers came next, and soon the camps became villages, which in time became towns. The four capitals are now great cities, and our greatest tribal warriors protect the curious and the overly-adventurous from the Guardians, who have proven to need no protection themselves. The Guardians are powerful, and they do not welcome visitors. The fields of the dead are littered with the corpses of those who sought to interrupt their solitude. In Westgate, we have a cemetery called the Guardian’s Garden, dedicated to the fools who just couldn’t leave well enough alone.

And now you know why Mayor Hasur was so appalled that his problem required the intervention of the Guardians, and why he tried to bury the rift instead of sending messengers to the Guardians as the she-elf suggested.

Crown's Peak is the capital of the Free Zone, which is at the center of the four kingdoms. It is where the four tribes meet once a year for trade and politicking and from where Mayor Hasur finally sent out riders to each of the four Watchtower cities, bearing his plea for help.

And now the story can begin.

Chapter One

The fishing fleet had come in for the night, and we were loading the day's catch into crates for the trade ships. Each crate had been enchanted to be cold, and the cold was biting, and even with gloves none of us could tolerate touching them for more than a few minutes at a time. I was taking a break from the packing and letting my fingers thaw when I saw the sails.

A sloop was approaching from the northeast, following the trade winds into the bay at Westgate. It was a large ship, meant for ocean travel, and it was flying the colors of the Free Zone. I turned and shouted to the harbor master, who had, of course, noticed the ship when it was still on the horizon. I don't pretend to be a lookout.

Horaz, the half-orc harbor master, stomped over to stand beside me. Too early in the season for traders, he huffed. Smells like trouble.

It was hard to believe he could smell anything over the fish on the dock, but I took his word for it. Have you sent for Rilan?

He shot me a resentful look. Of course.

Just asking.

Just as a quick aside, being a chieftain's son isn't really like being a prince. People aren't required to be deferential or even all that respectful. In fact, at the time these events took place, they reminded me constantly that they may have respected my father and the position he held, but as for me, I was just a kid. That was fine. I didn't want the fishermen to hold me in high esteem, because then they would expect me to do favors for them. If their daughters wanted to think that way about me, though, that suited me just fine. Unfortunately, their daughters didn’t think that highly of me, either.

By the time the sloop made its slow, sloshing way into the slip, Rilan and his war party had assembled at the shore. He waved me into position with the group, sort of. I was more behind the group than in it, but at least I was close enough to see what was happening and to hear what was said.

The name of the ship was Dauntless, and she had been to our city before. Her captain was a Fire tribesman named Imbanu, a man who loved good food, good stories, and good women. He usually spent copious amounts of gold when he came into port, which made him a very welcome guest. He was striding down the gangplank as we assembled, his black face gleaming in the sun. He was wearing the same flowing robes he always wore, with the same curved-toe slippers. He had tucked a gold dagger into his wide belt, marking this as a special occasion. I was going to call out to him, but he had a grim expression instead of his usual bright smile. I decided to stay silent.

Rilan stepped forward, opening his arms to Imbanu. Welcome back to Westgate, my friend, he greeted. Something tells me that this is not a social call.

The southerner nodded. I have an ambassador from Crown's Peak on board. He brings bad news, but he won't tell me what it is. He said he can only speak to the Chieftain of the Water Tribe. He shot a resentful look over his shoulder. The whole way, he made everyone on board nervous with his pacing.

Then let me speak to him and see what this news might be. My father was no stranger to bad news, so he felt ready for whatever this emissary had to say.

Imbanu nodded again. Then come aboard, he said. But only you. He will speak to no one else.

Colena Drogus, Rilan's right hand, scowled. We won't let our chieftain go aboard your ship unguarded, she huffed. For all we know, this emissary wants to murder him.

I will be with him, the Dauntless' captain said firmly. You know me, Colena. Can you not trust me to keep your master safe? Blood spilled in murder will curse my ship. I have no wish to sail home that way.

Rilan said, I trust you, Imbanu. You have always been a true and worthy friend. Take me to this emissary. The rest of you...wait outside.

As the two men left us, I sidled up to Colena, standing close enough to bump my elbow against hers. She barely glanced at me, but when she did, it was with the sort of tired tolerance she usually showed. She had served my father for several years, and though she was only a few years older than me, she thought of me as a child. One day, I vowed, I would prove her wrong.

What is it, Pedar? she asked.

What do you think this is? I'll wager it has nothing to do with trade from Crown's Peak.

She shrugged. I imagine your father will tell us when he comes out, if there's anything to tell.

I wasn't satisfied with that answer, so I pressed, But don't you even have a guess?

Colena turned to face me. I don't spend my time on idle guessing. I focus on the here and now, on what's real. I suggest you learn to do the same.

But that's dull.

Life is dull.

Not your life. You're a warrior – you get to see all of the exciting things.

She snorted quietly. Oh, Pedar. Someday you'll learn – fighting and death are not exciting. They’re terrible, and best avoided when possible.

When you're fighting, at least something in happening.

Yes, she sighed, generally something bad. She idly scratched her arm, where the marks of her grief for my brother were still healing. She had scored her skin more deeply than most, but I supposed she had felt the loss more than almost anyone. She and my brother had been comrades in arms, and probably more. The Dauntless usually doesn't fly the Free Zone flag.

The Free Zone doesn't have a fleet, so Imbanu was hired for the voyage. It makes sense.

It does, but why isn't he also flying the Barren's flag? What sense can you make of that?

She had a point. I considered the main mast and the lack of the Fire Tribe's banner. I think he's not showing his own colors to make it clear that this mission has nothing to do with his people.

Colena nodded. My thought, too. Which means that whatever the mission is, his chieftain hasn't seen fit to take it on.

Maybe their chieftain hasn't heard the message. Maybe the message really was only for Rilan.

Pedar, she said, speaking my name reproachfully. The Free Zone never sends an envoy to only one Tribe. That's a violation of the Accord.

Our conjecturing was cut off when Rilan appeared on the deck and made a hasty exit down the gangplank, his tanned face buckled in a frown. He gestured sharply to the group. Back to the keep, he ordered. Colena, call the Council.

I fell into step beside him as he passed me. Father, what news?

Not now, son. Go back to the catch.

I wanted to protest, but his eyes wore a familiar distracted look that told me his head was already in the council chamber. The Free Zone emissary left the ship and joined Rilan. His velvet clothes were too heavy for the western weather, and his pudgy face was red and beaded with sweat. He struggled to catch up with my father, who bent his head slightly to the shorter man to mutter something I could not hear. Colena strode away with them, as did the rest of the band, leaving me standing on the shore.

Imbanu came to me and put his hand on my shoulder. It's hard sometimes, isn't it, to not yet be of age? The time will come, young one, when your father will share his council with you, and then you will wish that you could be excluded. Enjoy this freedom while you have it.

He was trying to be kind, and while I truly appreciated the friendliness, it was as satisfying as a mouthful of sand to a thirsty man. The southerner turned to shout to his crew and then headed into town, taking his own advice and setting course for the many freedoms of Westgate.

I watched him go, then looked toward the longhouse where my father and his mysterious visitor were just disappearing through the huge double doors. Colena stopped and looked back into the square, looking for anyone who might have followed them from the docks, alert to trouble as always. She saw me looking and gave me a stern glare before going inside.

She knew me well.

I waited a decorous moment before I abandoned my job at the fish crates, just for the points it might give me with the gods. A man can't be too careful, after all. When Horaz looked away to roar at one of his hapless men, I scooted off toward the longhouse, too. I had lived in that glorified barn for my entire life, and I knew ways in and out of it that I was certain even my parents didn't know. Those scurry-holes had saved me from missing a host of curfews, quite literally saving my hide from the tanning it would have taken if I'd been found missing at Rilan's nightly bed check.

I went around the east side of the building and scrambled up the side, using handholds that were barely enough to grab. I had to go up the wall like a lizard, zigzagging around windows and trying to avoid being seen from inside. At the top of the wall, at the bottom section of the roof where the pitch was shallower, there was an air vent, the wooden cover propped up on its iron peg, oxidation from the aging metal coloring the edges of the dense thatch. The vent was just a little wider than my shoulders from corner to corner, but it was still a feat of wriggling and contortion to drop through into the air room below.

These little rooms tucked up against the roof kept a buffer zone of air between the living quarters and the outside world, keeping us cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter. They also ran the entire length of the house, forming a perfect access corridor not only to the bedrooms at the western end of the building, but also to the council chambers in the center.

I hurried down the gallery, stepping around the little vent plates for the different rooms that allowed a modicum of temperature control. I finally made it to the opening over Rilan's meeting room and stretched out on my stomach, peering through the air hole above my father's head.

The usual suspects were there: Rilan, of course, and Colena, as well as the Free Zone emissary. Pelhan was there, his carrot-red hair falling over his brow and merging with the mess of whiskers on his face until he looked like an overgrown bush with eyes. Korto sat beside him, as immaculate in his dress as Pelhan was messy, looking annoyed, as if Rilan had interrupted something he very much wanted to get back to doing. He was no doubt irritated that the chieftain's summons had made him stop counting his massive fortune, gold piece by gold piece. He was avaricious, but he knew the import business well. Guard Captain Logan Mers stood beside Colena, keeping watch over the little assembly, his thick arms crossed over his massive chest. Logan wasn't the Dread Islands wrestling champion because of his good looks. The last member of my father's advisory