Pious Body: Althuria's Gate

By O A Ogunkeye

Ethers flow into the continent of Althuria from an unseen world.

Formerly disgraced factions now work together, in order to unseat the divine triarchy of living Dieties who rule Althuria.

The Draakin scheme, the Aegis return, and Vartas is a frail young man who is caught in the current of powers greater than himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: O A Ogunkeye
• Release date: Mar 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215973899

Book preview

Chapter One: Sand and Survival

"I came here with nothing in mind. Nothing but the thirst of that which I sought and seek still. Blood. The blood of my companions and of my enemies alike. The blood of the world. My tongue remains slick with It.. I ensure that it is so. I open the wound and slake my thirst.

Pour your song into my throat."

A twilight settled upon a vast land and the sands glittered. The richness of the desert of Oraak was ubiquitous and although it seemed willing to share its immense bounty, it buried its gems, shrouded its sweeping vistas and sprung rivers where only savvy tenants might learn to find.

Winged scavengers soared the skies, seeking out the fresh remains of violence. The sands below shifted constantly, in subtle waves formed by suspicious winds, as well as all of the sand-dwelling bodies of creatures which knew no other ocean than Oraak. Some of those creatures sought out cacti and other hardy plants which could survive these arid lands, whilst others sought to feed the carrion-feeders with the remains from their bloody feast.

Telel Althordan, a seasoned agent of the Draakin monarchy, stood proudly atop these golden sands as though he owned them, for indeed his people once did.

He sauntered through the sands on four limbs, even though he could have done just as well on two.  His gait was proud, yet his approach was muted by the whistle of the desert's winds.  His tawny skin and tan robes were camouflaged amongst sand dunes and shrouded behind dust clouds. He prowled now, lowering his large chest and trunk-like arms, so that they dragged against the sands beneath himself. His long tail snaked along the side of the dune which he crawled against. The faint hiss of his Wyrmsteel tail-blade as sand trailed along its sinuous edge was audible only to Telel. His long ears twitched with the sounds of that hiss and more. Two Sapiens who stood, clad in black armour and silver cloaks, were speaking to each other.  Wisper mages, Telel thought. They were blissfully unaware of Telel's presence. A hulk of a body, partially embedded within a hill of sand which rose and fell subtly with each breath and only a precious few metres behind them. One of the Wisper mages started to turn.

The large muscles in Telel's hind-legs tensed and his tail stiffened. Sand erupted. The dune exploded, in a violent squall that scattered much sand to the winds. A massive body of muscles wrapped in robes soared forth, trailed by a curled tail and its shining blade.

Realisation dawned upon the first mage far too late. He attempted to draw upon the magic of his goddess. Futile, Telel thought, as his fist came crashing down on the head of the Sapien. Telel crushed the man's skull with a fist larger than his head, jellifying his brains instantly. The other mage leapt backwards, meaning to put space between himself and Telel. Neither fast, nor far enough, Telel thought as he spun, giving his long tail enough torque that it struck out and the sickle-like blade at its end cleanly decapitated the Sapien man.

Fresh corpses now graced arid sands with moisture and Telel strode on.

His was the prideful walk of a Draakin warrior away from those who had once opposed the rightful king of this continent. The killing was swift, brutal and instant. His victims had held a complacency afforded to them by their magic. Arrogance that had ultimately cost the mages their lives. With a hulk of a body and sparse cover to break the line of sight before the horizon, Telel had taken them by surprise.

Now he walked towards his target. That which must be concealed from the piercing illumination of Firos the fire God: The usurper.

Much of his body was muscular, including the long neck which held his head. His face was angular in shape and his eyes were deeply set just above his long snout. He wore his Drakon's mane long, flowing from his crown all the way down to his wide back, whilst his beard was cut to a long goatee that swung below his sharp chin, like a horse's tail.

Telel's long body was semi-quadrupedal and he walked with large arms that were just as thick as his substantially hefty hind legs. His legs were hock-jointed, making his relaxed gait appear potent with springiness.

But of all his features, his dignity lay in his muscular tail ―  which was nearly as long as his body before it ―  and especially what was at the end of his tail.

Meticulously grafted onto the keratinous and mace-like bulb at the end of the Drakon's tail was a wickedly curved sickle-like blade. The metal appeared to grow out of the tail, with a graft that appeared seamless, but on closer inspection gave evidence of its growth into the tail. Thousands of intricate metallic threads grew into the keratinous tail-bulb like plant roots.

Flying scavengers screeched in alarm in the sky above. Their collective dispersal illustrated the moving path of an airborne colossus. A Wyrm. The unintelligent primal cousin of the Draakin race. It flew with great wings and noxious gas trailed visibly from its great maw. The beast's scales fell like shaving razors from the sky. Each scale was coated with the same metallic substance out of which Telel's own tail-blade was fashioned. The biometal was what the Draakin called Wyrm-steel.

The beast flew onwards, taking little note if at all of Telel below, presuming him to be scant prey relative to its size. It cast a great shadow. Telel noted its size:

The average Wyrm ranges within ten metres of body length, but this giant is easily twice that length, thought Telel.

Its great wing-beats countered the desert's own winds and its eventual passing left an eerie silence in its wake save for the howling of the wind. The stillness of the sands now told the tale of an evacuation. The various sand-dwelling creatures of the desert had sought refuge elsewhere. All took heed of the Wyrm. That Wyrm ― although not the greatest ―  was greater than most.

The Draakin of Oraak knew this creature as Altarheon.

Telel looked on at the continuing figure of Altarheon in the distance. The rhythmic beat of its colossal wings still to be heard from afar, yet even beyond and above the soaring Altarheon. A mountain, inverted so that its jagged peaks pointed at the earth, like fingers of a hand reaching downward. It floated thousands of miles above the ground so that it rivalled the twin moons in competition for the sky of the world and upon the skyward foot of that mountain rested the city of Olympus.

The ascended metropolis, to be visible from everywhere but the very furthest reaches of the continent. And yet above the city shone a star. Its light constantly shifted through all colours of the spectrum. The sky-throne of The Firos burned perpetually with the light of his magic.

Telel strode on. Cloth wrappings flowed about his body and tough skin coated his massive muscles like natural armour. But he wore no armour. None but that of the faith in the One True King of Althuria. A faith which spurred him on in his duty. His role was vast and moments of rest were sparse.

This is how it must begin. With the search for one mage. A Sapien mage and a man against the orthodoxy of Althuria. A man that must beget others like himself.

Rejoice, heathen. That you be purified in the light of the lord. Alkinthur placed a gauntleted hand upon the sternum of the bare-chested barbarian maiden and burned the sigil of Firos unto her diaphragm ― A circle and within that circle a cross with arrow heads on each arm, all pointed inward to the centre of the shape.

She screamed her heretical defiance, but she would learn ― in time ―  what a blessing it was to live a life fully illuminated. She passed out from the procedure with a gaping mouth and rolled eyes. Unsightly. He stood up from his holy duty and a black armour clad soldier draped rags over the wench to cover her nudity.

Alkinthur came accompanied by many Fira: descended from Olympus in order to spread the word of the Pantheon and to evangelise the many barbarian tribes which resided in the vast Oraaki desert, shying away from the light of the lords and refusing the graces of Althurias gods. The work was thankless and seemingly endless, but it must be done.

He stepped out of the tent with a soldier in tow and looked upon the scene of their ongoing crusade within this village. Alkinthur wore a crimson cassock, with black armour to protect his arms. His right pauldron was emblazoned with the sigil of Firos, where its circle constituted inlaid gold and its bifurcated cross was bejewelled in crimson ruby. In a satchel at his side, tinctures of Ether were contained and his black armoured greaves and sabatons crunched dry plants underfoot. He’d come with thirty mages, an even distribution of Phlogister and Flasher mages. A few had died during the course of the expedition, but much would be gained by their sacrifice. This village would yet be decisively subjugated, new converts would fill the ranks of the anointed and a step towards a truly unified Althuria would be made.

An arrow flashed through the air, destined for Alkinthur's throat, but met with a compact explosion of fire several metres before it reached its target. The soldier behind him pointed two smoking, gauntleted fingers before himself, their heat caused the air around them to shimmer. The soldier drew Ether. The black smoky substance flowed out of a meshed canister in tendrils, glittering and iridescent in the twilight, the Ether condensed sharply, hissing and crackling, all the while shifting from its ambiguous darkness, into amber and then fire. The soldier  compressed a marble of fire between his fingers. A loud bang went off and the fireball flashed forward, launching a sizzling hole through the chest of the barbarian archer who had dared to attack an evangelising priest of Firos. Alkinthur wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and the cloth came away sooty.

Onwards with duty.

Screaming Sapien women and children could be heard from this distance with Telel's long Draakin ears. A weeping, disdainful screeching from individuals soon after silenced by the explosions of fire magic. Ether and Ash swirled the air currents above the encampment. A melancholy crown of glitter and drab.

Drooling Blightmen stumbled out of the village perimeter, useless in their catatonia. Bare-chested, with the sigil of The Firos branded unto their sides, backs, or midriffs. Their sigils glowed as the Blightmen reflexively performed their somatic excitations. Ethereal Magicite Particles floated down from smoke plumes, attracted by the random pulsations of the Blightmen and alighted upon them, sticking to their bare flesh in spots, clumps and patches. Those patches also glowed in pulses, synchronised with the wills of the madmen. The Grace of Firos which had been pressed upon their wills.

The contact was too valuable to be lost to these overzealous evangelists, thought Telel. Given that the entire village of Horkan was burning at this moment, the Fira must have numbered highly. Certainly more of their kind than Telel was willing to face alone. He had to believe that an extraction was still feasible even against these odds. Time was of the essence.

Telel broke into a four-limbed stride.  His grunts were laboured and he fought against the sands, yet it took only a few strides to accumulate the speed needed to reach the village in under ten minutes.

Al Thur, favour my stride, he muttered.

Ether tinctures clinked between his cloth folds and he winced at the thought of an enemy mage taking notice of them. Draakin did not normally possess the gift of Psykinetics and following that, had little need of the Ether, if any at all. This gift was the means by which the Sapien race ruled Althuria presently. The Age comes when Althuria shall not be shackled by the magic of men. A natural balance would resume, ushered in by Felthur's heroes. Drest and Drakon brought to the fore as the natural rulers of this land.

As he ran, he passed new Blightmen. The defeated Horkan warriors wore their matted hair in long locks, reaching past their backs. Many had burn wounds from the battleground which lay still a ways ahead, fresh crimson scars which exposed bloody flesh beneath, contrasted against brown Sapienic skin. Others stumbled about with Ethereal crystal patches, which had been Makeshifted over their wounds in a feeble attempt to staunch their bleed.

They dragged weapons in their stupor, much of which were painstakingly fashioned either partially, or entirely, of Ethereal Crystal. A hard black material with a nacreous sheen, only to be achieved and maintained by Psykinetic Sapiens.

Motion blurred in the corner of his vision. A black-armoured knight with an upraised sword that was shrouded in flame. The fire of Firos. The man sought to decapitate Telel having anticipated the path of his run. Telel slammed massive hands through the sands below, forking harder earth between fingers as he did, and ceased his forward motion instantly. The mistimed swing cut at air some feet before Telel's face, scorching the sands with amber polychromatic fire; the soldier's body glided into full view as the man committed to the swing. In one smooth motion, Telel twisted his body in an acrobatic circle. His muscular tail whipped round in an upward diagonal cut. With viperous speed his Wyrmsteel tail-blade cut through black armour like a firm apple, cleaving the puny man entirely in half. Telel brought his tail up and over his head. He flipped by allowing that momentum to carry himself over. Craning his long neck mid flip, he saw more soldiers rushing towards him ― each propelled forward by Ethereal fire ―  in a flank attack from where the first one had come. Just three of them, he could deal with three Phlogister mages...But how quickly? With the village of Horkan even closer now, Telel could see Crystal javelins hurled between huts, where Firebolts were their immediate reply.

He landed on two legs, graceful despite his size and his long tail swayed as an excellent counterbalance. Assuming a stance on all four limbs, he raised his head and glared at the mages who faced him now. Telel towered over them all. He was half the size of a man when remaining on four limbs and would be larger still if he stood on two legs. The three mages all raised firing arms towards him, drawing hissing Ethers as they did.

Telel whipped his tail and dashed a wall of sand towards his attackers. Firebolts pierced the curtain of sand and flared out in fiery blooms when they struck the ground where Telel used to be. He darted sideways, blindsiding the group. and lashed out with his tail, aiming to decapitate the nearest man. The strike whistled as it cut through air, missing its mark; the man ducked the strike.

Two firebolts sounded off and one of them struck Telel's shoulder glancingly even as he lunged to evade. His tough hide blackened where the magic had struck, leaving a marble-sized crater of still cooking flesh. Grunting with the pain, his long ears stiffened and he  bared his fangs in a pained grimace. He never lost his stride though. They’d surrounded him in a triangle formation, all firing bolts of fire towards Telel in the centre.

The Drakon darted and dashed about evading the bolts, never allowing a piercing strike, all the while searching for an opportunity. Breath ragged with effort, he felt his speed falter and knew then that his stamina would not outlast the mages Ethers. In desperation, Telel grabbed one of a number of Ether-tinctures kept within a fold of his flowing garments and hurled it at one of the mages. The man shot the tincture out of the air and it exploded in a wide flash, its content just as ― if not more―  combustible as the Ethers which the Phlogisters fired. At that moment Telel lunged forward, easily covering ten metres in a single bound, he dove straight through the wall of fire, obscured from his foe by the flare. He struck with a massive fist. The man brought up both hands, hoping to take the brunt of Telel's force with the armour he wore. A severe misjudgement on his part. Telel crunched the steel of the man's upraised guard, warped steel shredded the man's arms. Bones snapped loudly and his arms were forced apart to make space for the Drakon's continuing fist. Telel caught the man square in the centre of his visored face, splitting the helm and rendering the Sapien's face into bloody pulp. Telel landed on three limbs, skidding in the sands with his bloodied fist retracted. Two remained still and now they fired upon him with increased fervour. Telel had broken their surrounding formation. Horkans people had yet to be extinguished, the screams of the village were closer now. He turned tail and ran towards the village and his assailants gave chase.

The target still lives; He must.

Submit yourselves to the lord God Firos. Prostrate yourselves before the Pantheon of Althuria. You are denizens within this land and to its gods must you devote yourselves. Let not the complacency of peace cloud your thoughts, for you all rest within lands where Wyrm should have long since devoured your pitiful selves and yet remain unscathed for so long. Even the wretched Wyrm fear the might of our gods, now you Horkan; Pay your tithe. Give to Firos what is owed and give to Aeros what is needed and give to Terranos what is deserved. But you must give. You must. Oh you lost ones, I tell thee solemnly: There is no other way than the way of the Pantheon. Alkinthur preached to the lost ones during the subjugation.

Many of the Horkan had now begun to see the futility in their resistance and knelt before Alkinthur with bare chests and bosoms awaiting the brand. The brand that would sear the will of Firos unto theirs. The anointing. There were yet those who resisted still, though their numbers thinned. Culled by the Elite Fira he had brought from Olympus. Once the duty here was done, Alkinthur would rest within this village a day or two with his company before moving on in their search to cleanse the desert of heresy.

Black armoured soldiers blasted away barricaded doorways and plundered therein cowering heretics, dragging them out by their scruffs and locks. The occasional crystal javelin soared through the air, seeking the flesh of Alkinthurs soldiers, but meeting only with Fire or shattering against hard black armours.

Alkinthur spread his arms wide and raised his head to Althuria's sky. Basking in the light of the sky-throne, Olympus in all its glory loomed high in the sky behind him. Alkinthur looked to the southern sky. Twin moons glared at him like cats’ eyes in the twilight.

He lowered his eyes to ground level and noticed a battle some ways outside of the village. A large figure had run past two of his soldiers after killing one.

Draakin! Alkinthur shouted.

Prepare a four-man barricade to engage the heretic Alkinthur briefly wondered why the Draakin would involve themselves in the struggle of the Horkan. Had the elusive new Drakon king now begun to meddle where ages of subservience by his forefathers to the Gods had taught him no better?

You there He beckoned a nearby soldier. Come my son. For you, there is a task of great import. Travel to where the Wisper is posted less than half a league to the south of this village and have them relay the fact of interference by the Draakin monarchy in this holy crusade. The soldier touched his visored brow in a salute.Yes father.

Alkinthur watched the soldier run toward his objective and as meshed Ether-canisters clinked behind his shoulder, the Ethers behind the hatched metal mesh curled like smoke and glittered.

Alkinthur turned to face the new problem of the Draakin. The fool was within range now.

Draw Ether and fire! No sooner than when Alkinthur had issued the command than did four Makeshifted Crystal Javelins fly past and pierce the armoured backs of all the soldiers in the barricade. The men grunted and fell to the ground dead. Alkinthur whirled upon the kneeling Horkans. Furiously pointing his finger as he accused them. Do you still resist, you heretics!? he shouted. I shall - the words died on his lips and the glimpse of a shadowed figure darted by, hiding amongst the huts of the Horkan. A skilled one yet remains, route him out and show him what little Graceless magic can do against holy fire! Frustration laced Alkinthur's voice as he issued commands.

The Draakin would yet breach if he did not split his forces. Although Olympia's Fira were mighty, nearly five men died to a single Draakin warrior during wartime and this foe had struck at a critical point during this campaign. Alkinthur saw the Drakon sprint into the village before his soldiers could replenish the fallen barricade. Skidding to a halt, It seemed to search the strewn bodies for something.

Alkinthur retrieved an Ether tincture from a fold in his crimson cassock and from it drew Ethereal fire into his palm. Fira screamed and died behind him and he turned to find the shadowy figure ― just barely recognisable as a man ― moving as a blur of his own colours, darting tens of metres at a time between Fira, killing instantly with each meeting. Ether flowed about his person like a black tempest and spikes of hard crystal flew from swift silvery hands and into the bodies of the mages in Alkinthur's company. Alkinthur screamed wordless rage and fired at the heretic.

Telel sprinted into the village just as four black armoured Sapiens died, with shiny black spikes jutting from their backs. A Firan evangelist stood in the village centre, crimson clad and surrounded by kneeling Horkans awaiting their binding. Bodies littered the village grounds here and the sands drank blood aplenty. Those who were not already dead, were Blightmen ― intractably stupefied by Psykinetic exertions ― or Olympian Fira carrying out this massacre with fire in hand. The target remained unseen as of yet. His wide chest heaving, the mages which still gave chase would be a minute or two before they arrived, Telel thought that gave him some seconds to breathe before being noticed by the crusaders. He glanced once more at the priest and noticed that the man stared directly at him whilst coalescing a colourful fireball in his hand. Wyrmshit!

Telel dove to his left, rolling and keeping low to the ground, firebolts scorched the sands where he had stood, but those came from behind him. His pursuers had arrived. Then Telel saw it. The man was like a maelstrom of Ether and Crystal, flowing seamlessly between Olympians and killing them once he’d passed by. The man stopped briefly to glance at Telel, before continuing his beautiful slaughter. The target lived and his name was Bahkali. A rebellious heretic by the laws of the pantheon, he wielded neither fire, nor fluid, nor silt with his Psykinetics. Makeshifting raw Ether as the graceless common Sapien did, he felled foes with Ethereal crystal and an implacable will. He performed tens ― no, Hundreds ― of Psykinetic excitations fluidly and without rest and had not been reduced to a muttering Blightman as the average Sapien surely would, if they were to apply these same efforts.

Bahkali glared with hard unwavering eyes, like a vishcat just sighted easy prey. Every single one of them would fall. These filth, who worship false gods. They would all be cleansed. Bahkali drew Ethers about his person, swirling, streaking and shrouding himself with polychromatic shadows. He filled his Wyrmsteel vambraces and gauntlets, drawing Ether through the spiral gaps. He crushed the skulls of filth with Psykinetically enhanced strikes. The speed and force of the strikes were doubled and then squared by explosive Psykinetic excitations placed at precise points during the motions. More filth raised hands against him meaning to cast their inferno at him.

He excited Ether explosively at his heels, leaping the length that a Drakon warrior could, but only much faster. He weaved through Fira, plunging fortified crystal spikes through their armour. The dextrous ones would strike at him with fire-shrouded weapons. He side-stepped their advances, crushing skulls with Wyrmsteel fists and lancing bodies with hard crystal javelins which he let fly. His was the Psykinetics afforded to him by the knowledge of the Aegis. The old gods of Althuria. Those gods who once protected the denizenry of Althuria and lived amongst their people, were cruelly slain by the invading Astrals.

Bahkali glanced at a Draakin agent just coming into the fray. He had pursuers behind him, more filth. Bahkali makeshifted a shortsword out of Ether and burst forwards,