The Land of All Things Fallen: Part II (The Wyvern King's Redemption Volume 1)

By D W Gladstone

This is the second part of The Land of All Things Fallen.

For two hundred years, the Dark Moon of Perrefiere has blackened the northern sky. For two hundred years, the fortress of the Immortal has eclipsed the northern sun and cast the lands of Ammandorn and Eryndor in dark light. A promise of war and cataclysm to the five bloods of men and the kingdoms they have built across the inland sea. Now, that war is beginning - the weapon of the Immortal has been found.

From a council of the Archivists and the Magus Tribunal, Elle'dred, Champion of the White Wolf, has been dispatched with a fellow knight and two magus. Under the command of the Tribunal's Champion, Taedoran of Ygoth, they are to escort the weapon to the old lands of Eryndor where - with the aid of a magus steeped in ancient knowledge - it may be undone.

But the weapon, a creature - an Incarnate - the channel for all hell-fire, seems to be nothing more than a frightened animal, innocent and unaware of its true purpose. The truth of its nature, and of the war to come, will shake the very foundations of Elle'dred's oath to the Order of the White Wolf, the Archivists, and the land of Ammandorn itself.

For unknown to the Champion of the White Wolf, the arrival of the weapon and the renewed threat of the Dark Moon has awakened the drive of ruthless ambition, personal grievances and the bitterness of wounds unhealed - and a dark secret that violates the very precepts of the society they strive to protect. A secret now forced into the light.

The war of the Immortal has begun and the land of Ammandorn will fall - but whether beneath the yoke of its own sins, or beneath the crimson flames of hell-fire and the darkness of a Moon, is yet uncertain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D W Gladstone
• Release date: Nov 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370198160

D W Gladstone

D W Gladstone is an Australian born author currently residing in South Australia. A competition winner in short stories and poetry, he published his first novel, The Land of All Things Fallen, in 2015. His second novel, A Forest of a Thousand Suns, has been published in April, 2017 and continues the The Wyvern King's Redemption series.

Book preview

Chapter 16

The Fourth Heaven flourished, and for a time all was well upon the sky. But not all the Andarae were happy with the cycle of rebirth to which they were bound. And to remain solely upon Anmyar would sadden them. An Andarae, a single flame, saw this and was angry. And so he turned his back upon the river, and cast the first shadow seen to the sky.

That shadow was cast across Anmyar, and a new thing was born. An Immortal Being, one who did not change, one who did not flow from form to form. One who shed the cycle of rebirth to be the brightest flame. As he saw himself. The Immortal jumped into the sky, forsaking the river he hated. He took flight and headed for the Fourth Heaven. He saw it as his right to shape the fourth heaven with his light, as all Andarae did, for why should they become less for a lesser heaven?

* * *

Syla had returned to the barracks. She was exhausted. She had spent the day and the night assisting the garrison prepare the township for the impending attack.

She was the only magus qualified to reinforce their defences. The handful of other mage-born ranked within the fifth army, and the four stationed at the keep, were useless – she had no other opinion of them. They were all battle-magus, trained to hurl glamorous fire and sweep earth aside in spectacular displays of power, but they were inept in the deep magics – utterly inept.

So their rightful duties had fallen to her; she was tasked with placing ward afterward along the outer ramparts, strengthening the wood of the barricades erected at every entrance, naming the faults in the walls left from the bombardments suffered days ago. And, despite her labours, she had to suffer the scorn of ignorant soldiers who muttered disparagements under their breaths –

– She had wheeled on one and delivered the most brutal lecture she had thought possible; in response the soldier had nearly struck her. Had his blow landed, and a fellow not restrained him – with a savage glare at her, as though the blame rested on her ebony clad shoulders – she was tired and angry enough to split the rock beneath their feet and let them fall from the ramparts to their deaths.

She would never have done that – she had calmed or consoled herself, later. That was against the law, and she served the law – it was her duty, if nothing else, the sovereign right of her blood.

All she had left was the law and duty.

She did not want to be here.

She had repressed her most morbid thoughts, meticulously – they would serve no purpose now.

They had to hold the township, repel the goblins – the primary defence of Ammandorn demanded it. The line of keeps were not just a myriad set of fortifications from which armies could be based, but rather they had been built as the first and foremost line of magical defence against their people’s enemies.

Alike the Line of Erenbrek, which protected the Living Mountains and the South Bank in Eryndor, the line of keeps had been erected to support a warding spell, vast and unseen, that would secure Ammandorn’s defence despite the calamities of war.

The warding spell prophesied doom upon any force or foe that crossed it; so long as the line held, Ammandorn would emerge victorious despite defeat or loss – despite the numbers they faced.

So long as the keeps held.

If one or more were razed to the ground, the warding spell would weaken if not undoubtedly break – a circle of the Tribunal might be able to hold the spell intact for a time, but if Catesus fell, or any of the other keeps, the spell would inexorably be annulled.

Syla did not know what constituted ‘the line’ itself – she wished she could assign a number to what they could suffer, how much they could lose before their defences fractured.

They no longer possessed the knowledge of the magics used to create the line; they could not restore it, or establish a second defence alike it. Those magics had been lost centuries ago – only the elves had retained any knowledge of them. And the elves were dead, extinct, now.

Dwelling on the subject served no useful purpose.

The line would have to hold; the ancient magic that had warded the people for centuries would hold.

It perturbed her, however, that the goblins might know of the spell – in their history, the goblins had never sought to destroy a keep. The military had believed that no war band could suffer the losses of an assault. But now, the goblins sought to destroy not one, but seemingly all of the keeps.

This war was already like no other war Ammandorn had faced.

She was exhausted. She did not want to be here. She had not bathed, she had barely slept – and she had been recurrently beset by the nagging guilt over abandoning her mission.

It did not matter – Ayadra and Hheirdane had arrived unharmed; or rather, no more harmed they had been. She had not seen anything of the knight since he had arrived – alongside the Champion of the White Wolf.

Elle’dred had not been dead, as she had been certain he was – and to her annoyance, no spell she had cast had revealed what sinister change had been forced upon him by that monster.

Maybe he had not been changed – no, necromancers were evil, so the law stated; Llrsyring must have done something to him.

The vile deathwalker’s absence proved it.

The law stated he was an enemy.

She was too tired.

And to her dismay, she would get no sleep this day; Taedoran had risen when she had returned to the barracks, and she had been ordered to explain their presence in the keep, and what had transpired prior to their arrival.

Taedoran had glared at the incarnate when she had told him about Elle’dred’s disappearance – he did not seem to care, more approve, of Hheirdane’s beating of the prisoner.

Ayadra –

The guards had seen the incarnate, word had already spread about it – the beast kept in the empty barracks. What Hheirdane had told the garrison commander and the General, she did not know – neither had come to inspect the prisoner to her knowledge.

Dus arrived just after dawn; he looked as tired as she.

Thankfully, he took over the summary of the tactical situation.

In silence, she slumped on a cot, as her fellow magus’ voice filled the air of the barracks. The dim light of the morning lifted the waning gloom of the only lamp left that illuminated the room.

As her eyelids hung heavily, near closing, the crash of the barracks door prompted a surge of adrenalin.

– Elle’dred entered.

Accompanied by a sound akin to the evanescent howl of a storm.

Black mist appeared from the air, in the corner of the room, and formed into the shape of the suit of armour; solidifying into the dull grey metal and black robes.

The necromancer.

Syla bolted to her feet – as did Taedoran. Despite the tremor of his arm, and the weak paleness that exuded from every area of his naked body, the Champion of the Tribunal groped for his sword.

Deathwalker! he snarled.

Syla crystallised a rune; the magic sapped at her lack of strength – the crystal evaporated into mist a moment after it formed, transmuted into a wave of dizziness that forced her back onto the bed.

She swore inwardly; she had reached the limit of her stamina.

She glanced up, as Dus reached for the flame of the lamp, and cupped a crackling blaze afloat above his palm.

Llrsyring waved his gauntleted fingers through a gesture – and the argent glare of rune shone at his fingertips; Syla watched helplessly as the rune sailed through the dim light of the room, between the necromancer and Dus.

It struck the flames in the battle-magus’ hand.

In an instant, the flames froze – their colour and life transmuted into the transparency and stillness of water. The water cascaded across the magus’ hand as he recoiled and checked his limb in alarm; it splattered against and wetted the wooden-floor of the barracks.

Syla gaped.

Taedoran took a step towards the armour, raising his sword for a blow – but was forced side-ways, and driven a half-dozen steps into a thudding impact against the wall of the barracks.

Elle’dred pinned him to the wood – the knight’s own blade drawn across his naked counterpart’s throat.

Exhaustion and shock drove Syla into a stupor of inaction – as it had too many times in recent days.

She was better than this, she was not so damned weak – she forced herself to her feet.

Why? Elle’dred hissed into the pallid face of the Champion.

There were tears in the knight’s eyes – a palpable grief – Syla stopped, bewildered.

Why?! – a spray of saliva scattered droplets into Taedoran’s face.

Why what? the Champion of the Tribunal snarled, half-choked, in response.

Deathwalkers are killed at birth, Elle’dred stated – angry, in pain, There are six bloods and you bastard magus murder all those born to the sixth.

Llrsyring had done something to the knight, she was sure of that now – she glared at the armour.

Elle’dred had a blade to their leader’s throat; and she could not conjure magic – she would lose consciousness if she tried.

There are only five bloods, Elle’dred. she stated, categorical and stern. To herself she sounded almost angry.

You knew. Elle’dred hissed – at the Champion; the knight was paying her no heed.

Elle’dred, lower your sword.

The command from the deathwalker shocked her, as it did all of them – Elle’dred glanced over his shoulder.

Why? –

Elle’dred turned back to Taedoran, Tell them there is a sixth blood, tell them you kill necromancers at birth.

Necromancy is a fell magic Elle’dred. It is a practice of evil – not a blood, her voice broke into hoarseness; stubborn certitude however could not be mistaken – but the knight wasn’t listening.

He only listened to the deathwalker; Llrsyring had corrupted him, as any necromancer would. The law stated such.

The Champion of the Tribunal was silent; he had not responded to the knight with more than a glare – he wasn’t damn well helping himself, he should have been denying the false accusations.

Tell him there are only five bloods. Syla ordered – Taedoran had served the Tribunal for years; his service to the law had earned him his title. The knight is going to kill you –

Taedoran spoke, but the words that came out of his mouth were beyond her comprehension, There are six bloods.

Syla stared – she had misheard him, or he had misspoken.

Elle’dred shook with rage; his eyes narrowed and his fist clenched.

She gaped – too much was happening before her, in her. She had misheard. She could not be wrong – she could have –

Necromancy is evil. It must be destroyed, whether in a decrepit magus, or a newborn. Necromancers are an abomination. despite the indignity of his nakedness, the assuredness of the Tribunal Champion’s voice was as bare as his body.

Taedoran recited the words as she had recited the laws of the Tribunal, her lessons to her students –

Necromancer’s are born? she stammered – she turned her mounting confusion and pleading on her leader, They are read at birth and destroyed?

Do your duty magus! Taedoran snarled; his throat pushed against the edge of Elle’dred’s blade releasing a trickle of red.

Shock.

She could not handle this. Her mind went blank, emptied of all thought. She could not –

She stared at the naked paleness of Taedoran’s face, the pallid honesty of his posture – at the furious conviction that burned in his eyes.

All she could do was stare.

From beside her, Llrsyring – the deathwalker, whispered or spoke, These are the masters you serve.

The words seemed meant for her. She heard them, but they faded in her sudden emptiness.

She stumbled back onto the bed.

Blood trickled from the edge of Elle’dred’s sword, down Taedoran’s neck, I will expose you, – his voice was as empty as she, I will expose your crimes to the people.

They are not crimes. Taedoran snapped back, You are the criminal – you speak treason and befriend a necromancer. You will be condemned for your crimes.

What if I kill you here? Elle’dred asked.

Taedoran sneered, his hand clenched the hilt of his own sword; but Elle’dred’s grasp restrained his wrist.

Elle’dred, Llrsyring said again, Lower your sword.

He deserves to die.

He does. the armour replied, He is a fool, but fools rule your world. And there is a duty you must yet do, if not for them then for the people you intend to protect. Ayadra.

What did he mean? – the thought vanished amidst her emptiness. What was he? A deathwalker.

Listen to your deathwalker, Taedoran spat.

After a moment Syla scarce felt pass, Elle’dred lowered his sword and retreated a step away from the pallid, exposed Champion.

Taedoran rubbed the blood from his neck; his sword hung limply against the skin of his waist.

Elle’dred struck him, across the face – the slap of flesh against flesh, and the clack of bone echoed throughout the barracks as Taedoran toppled to the floor.

The man remained that way for a moment; Elle’dred turned around and moved away.

As the grey light of dawn intruded into the barracks, Syla stared at the naked, slumped body of her leader – of the man entrusted by the Tribunal to uphold the law.

That man now turned furious eyes on the knight’s back. Taedoran dragged himself to his feet, advanced and thrust his weapon at the defenceless back of the Champion of the White Wolf.

Even shock was beyond her; all she could do was watch.

Taedoran’s blade, however, was met by solidifying mist and the grating screech of rent armour. Llrsyring stood between him and the knight, having crossed the barracks in an instant of vanishing and reappearance. Taedoran’s blade stabbed through the necromancer’s shielding and hollow body.

Llrsyring grasped the naked Champion’s pale throat, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him, again, into the wall.

Taedoran gasped, choked.

Llrsyring’s gauntlet wrapped around the man’s throat, a terrible threat Syla scarce comprehended, I could make you suffer a death no living being should know, the helm hissed into Taedoran’s ashen, sweat drenched face, And you would suffer in death until the end of the world is upon us. There is nothing you could do to stop me. Try to harm Elle’dred again and I will kill you.

The armour’s gauntlet released, and Taedoran dropped. His pale legs quivered and folded from the exertion, and he struck the ground – his injured shoulder bearing the impact. He grimaced, but did not allow any sound to move from his throat.

Dus moved to help him; Taedoran snarled and struck the magus away.

Syla stared.

Quivering in fury, pain and evidently the lingering effects of the goblins’ poison, Taedoran clawed his way to his feet. He still clung to the hilt of his sword. He tried to moved, but managed only a stumble onto his cot. The morning’s weak light glistened across the sweat coating his skin.

He stared at the knight and the deathwalker on the far side of the room; betrayal and anger festered in his eyes.

Syla stared at him, likewise.

* * *

Elle’dred sat on the cot in the barracks. The grey light of the day filled the silence of the room. The gloom had remained, like the air – heavy, thick – since dawn.

He had meant to kill the bastard – but he hadn’t. He had wanted to, it might have eased the emptiness inside him – filled it with blood. But he had realised such things would be temporary at best; he had realised –

It was useless.

Taedoran’s was just one pallid face of betrayal; and his was too consumed by self-conviction to be worth the knight’s anger. The man believed he was right, what he did was right.

Nothing could shake that belief; Elle’dred had seen that in his eyes.

But there were others; three old men he had served and spoken to for too many years of his life – three Elder Archivists he had trusted. They served Ammandorn, they served the people.

And they murdered children.

They served the law.

It made him sick. There was ample self-recrimination too; he served the law – the tenets of the White Wolf. One stated, the very first and foremost edict of his order – that ‘where the undestined lead we shall follow’. He couldn’t follow anymore.

He betrayed himself; the Elder Archivists had betrayed him.

Hheirdane had not returned since his arrival in the barracks; he did not know where his friend was, or what he was or had suffered. He didn’t really care.

Llrsyring stood by his side, as he had for hours; the deathwalker had not said anything.

Elle’dred thought he perceived regret – or satisfaction, on the immovable grey façade of the helm – but he dismissed the notion as everything else.

He had no power; the Champion of the White Wolf had no power.

Taedoran could have him convicted at any time; no one would object – if he tried to reveal what the Elder Archivists and the Tribunal had done, he would be arrested and condemned. They had hidden what they did for centuries; and no one had managed to undermine them yet.

It was pointless.

Llrsyring had spoken of a purpose – one he had to fulfil – Ayadra.

The incarnate was innocent – completely innocent; he knew that now. Ayadra had not escaped under his own volition that night, he had been controlled by Llrsyring’s dreaming magic, and he had been abused constantly and without mercy.

He deserved better than this.

The magus had said the incarnate was a weapon designed to destroy Ammandorn – Elle’dred doubted their words.

– The Magus had no reason to lie about Ayadra.

Elle’dred had been assigned the duty of protecting Ammandorn’s people; the people weren’t the government – the people were as innocent as Ayadra. That duty still remained.

Llrsyring was right – he had some purpose left.

It seemed so pointless.

Hheirdane thought of the world as a dark place, Elle’dred had always wanted to believe it wasn’t – self-delusion and ignorance, at least he had been happy with them.

Elle’dred, Llrsyring’s voice was a whisper, Trouble approaches.

He did not comprehend what the deathwalker meant; the suit of armour stepped into the shadows at the corner of the room.

The door burst open amidst a clatter of wood.

Flanked by the grey sky outside, a man in the trappings of a General entered the barracks. His eyes flashed abhorrence at each of them, before he strode over to the wall – where the incarnate had been secured. Soldiers flooded into the building, amidst a thrum of boots, in the wake of their commander. Their swords were unerringly drawn.

Elle’dred bolted to his feet.

The General stopped at the incarnate – and pulled away his cowl. Alarmed gasps echoed throughout the room. The man snarled and grabbed Ayadra’s throat, hauling the incarnate up against the wall.

Ayadra wheezed, and struggled weakly against the man’s grasp – his eyes screamed fear.

The General moved his sword to thrust it into the incarnate’s naked obsidian belly.

Elle’dred arrived before the man could complete his move.

The knight slammed his full body weight into the General’s side, forcing the man to careen, stumbling into his inferiors beside him. The soldiers half caught their commander, struggling not to impale him on their own waiting blades.

Elle’dred drew his sword, and stood over the incarnate – gasping for breath, behind him.

Soldiers moved around him, a half-dozen blades bared and pointed at his throat.

He did not care –

The General regained his footing.

You dare bring that curse here? You dare?

I am the Champion of the White Wolf Hall, by my authority you will be condemned and executed! he bellowed the word with all the rage he felt towards the man – the other Champion, If you harm this prisoner.

The feral anger in his eyes made the General pause.

The man glared in response, Guards.

The soldiers moved closer; one pressed her blade against his tunic-covered chest.

Elle’dred held the eyes of the General.

That thing brings evil towards it. It is a curse. It must be killed so we can live.

The man’s eyes shone with the same self-conviction Elle’dred had seen in Taedoran’s – the knight hated that glint.

Our mission is to escort it, Elle’dred enforced a calm, level tone – he doubted there would be any reasoning with this man, and he would end up stabbed to death for trying; he didn’t care anymore – The Archivists and the Tribunal ordered this of us. You can’t refuse their authority.

The words, each and every, disgusted him.

Taedoran still had not intervened; the bastard was so self-righteous he’d doom all of Ammandorn to see an enemy suffer.

Something fractured in the General’s gaze; for a moment, he seemed ready to give the order and end Elle’dred’s life – instead he relinquished, waved for his soldiers to lower their weapons.

A second war band joined with the first, this morning; the goblins numbers have increased. All the enemy’s forces have combined to assault this keep in particular – because that thing is here. It is a curse. The goblins will be here by tomorrow; if I killed that thing they might yet turn away.

Elle’dred did not respond.

But it seems the Archivists have sanctioned the destruction of this stronghold, the General’s lip curled, fatalistically, almost despairingly, I concede to their authority, and yours, Champion. You’re all going to die here anyway.

He turned and shouldered his way through his troops out of the barracks. The soldiers followed suit.

Elle’dred lowered his sword; Ayadra wheezed behind him.

He turned and knelt to inspect the incarnate’s injuries, Are you all right?

Ayadra flinched, and clenched his eyes reflexively at his touch; his hands were bound in bandaging, as was his thigh. Elle’dred still did not know what had happened to injure him.

Ayadra trembled.

Elle’dred sighed, there was nothing he could do. About anything.

Llrsyring moved from the shadows; he had not disappeared into smoke as he did before – yet despite his presence, the soldiers seemed not to have perceived him.

He had not been slain by an army –

Llrsyring, Elle’dred whispered, You heard what was said. This keep is going to fall. That goblin army is beyond its defences – are they beyond you?

Elle’dred.

Answer me! he snapped.

No, they are not.

Llrsyring could not die, he could be stabbed by dozens of weapons and suffered no ill effect – and his swordplay was beyond anything Elle’dred could hope to achieve. He commanded magic.

Then do whatever you can. Slay as many of them as you can before you fall – – if you can die at all, Protect Ayadra, you seem to want to do that.

There was a long silence – the others of the party, the bastard watched him and the deathwalker.

The helm met is eyes, and whispered, Shadows can be cast far longer than the form that makes them.

Llrsyring melted into black mist and vanished.

The words left in their wake, doubt – it filled the silence. He did not care –

– He had a duty left to fulfil; he had little conviction left for it, but he would fulfil it. Then whatever bastards ran this damned world could kill him and he would not care.

He stood, slowly and crossed the barracks. He stood before Taedoran; he met the man’s eyes – the Champion of the Tribunal glared at him as he had at Ayadra and the deathwalker.

For sometime all he did was stare.

I swore to protect Ammandorn, he forced the words out, I swore to see this mission complete. I will hold to my oaths. The Archivists and the Tribunal are deplorable – they aren’t worth my allegiance. So I am a traitor, and you can condemn me for it – but not until we reach Ambranas. I give you my word I will not oppose you, and I will follow your orders until our mission is complete.

He had to protect Ayadra; that was all that mattered now.

Taedoran sneered in disgust, You are a trai–

Don’t question my word, Elle’dred growled; the only belief he had left was evinced in every feature he possessed, You don’t have the damned right.

Taedoran glared at him, You swear to serve me, obey –

Yes. Elle’dred ground out.

You swear to serve the Tribunal and the Archivists.

– He bit back his rage, the betrayal. It did not matter anymore. He did not care enough for it to matter. Yes.

You are a traitor and will die for it.

Yes.

Taedoran’s eyes shifted into disdain, Then you will not die until we reach Ambranas, Champion of the White Wolf.

Elle’dred turned, and moved away from the man he despised.

He would survive; he would serve what respect he had left for himself – he would protect Ayadra. It was all he had now.

* * *

The Staff-Bearer looked out of the narrow, slit of a window onto the terrace below. He breathed a sigh of relief that he did not have to strain his wrist again for some time. Coughing seized him briefly, but the slight annoyance caused by the paroxysm was a welcome alleviation to the dredging despair that had been upon him since morning. He had spent yet another day signing death warrants.

He knew too many of the names by the faces connected to them, and each of them was to be sent into the war. Very few would return, he knew, and the assuagement – that he had no other choice – did not comfort him. He longed to spare them a gruesome death, or otherwise spare them the pain of watching their friends die around them if they did not.

The only consolation he gave himself was that if he did not do this duty, it might fall upon someone who could not stomach it – or could stomach it too readily.

Some of the students that applied were not ready for a fight, and some would never be ready – the Staff-Bearer dreaded that it might come to a time when even they would be needed, but for the moment at least he could keep the utterly unprepared from pursuing their ends.

His thoughts, briefly, ignited into frustration; his lunch had yet to be delivered. After a morning of harsh, unforgiving work, and only the solace of more to come, he grew impatient with the lack of food.

He resolved to quit his room and investigate, when the old hinges screeched and the doorway emitted a servant carrying a tray loaded with sustenance.

You are quite late. Hadrath muttered.

Apologies, High Magus. the weak reply was given as the servant laid the tray on the table nearest the door.

What is that? Hadrath queried, eyeing the spherical pot beside the meal.

Oh, High Magus, the servant remarked, High Magus Ragmurath thought that with all the stress the Tribunal members are under, that a treat was in order. He knows you are very fond of Emerald-petal tea, and he requested I bring some to you.

Hmmm, mused the Staff-Bearer, It is not like High Magus Ragmurath to be so considerate. Hadrath chuckled, grimly, Mayhap he is going as mad as I with all this worry.

The servant poured the tea into the cup. Its aroma reached Hadrath almost immediately; sweet, crisp and it cleared his nose even at a distance.

The servant took a spoon and ladled a little sugar into the cup and stirred, Oh, he exclaimed, I apologise High Magus, do you take it sweet?

Hadrath had moved back to