Ardalia: The Flames of the Immolated (Book Three): Ardalia, #3

Chapter One – THE ORB OF KERENGAR

For malians, the darkness that had spread in the city was not a problem. The eyes of Lominan and Elisan-Finella were accustomed to take advantage of the slightest light sources. The sound of bare feet on the pavement barely disturbed the silence of the night. Since the crowd was emptied out of the streets, the city no longer resonated with the noise of feverish conversations.

Lominan knew this apparent calm was misleading. The Turquoise Water of Belenia’s pools would for a log time echo with fear and dismay. Between the spiral walls of the shells and nautilus, discussions were sure to be raging already.

It makes you wonder whether the time when we were called the harmony people is well and truly past.

The alteration of the Turquoise Water had been as insidious as the disappearance of the first mil’ser. When the Hortal and his Advisors had finally reacted, it was too late. After the latest events, many people must suspect that corruption had tainted the highest circles.

The world is definitely upside down.

For her fellows, helplessly witnessing the intrusion of ten krongos within the walls of their mother city had been the first shock. The thing had not been seen in malian memory. Then learning of the assassination of one of these stone colossi by a crimson shaman... And to top it all, the divisions between the Master of the Shells and the High Hierarch had inevitably been exposed. With Talja-Guelza now facing a prison sentence, the Master of the Shells’ reign had taken a darker turn.

Lominan and Elisan-Finella arrived in front of the arches of the west gate. One could hardly make out the guards on either side in that clouded night. Lominan’s slender fingers, like those of Elisan and Finella, waved occasionally, readjusting the invisible strings of power connected to the Bubble of Camouflage. The spell hid them from view, but they needed to be careful not to make any sound. Slender and fine, Elisan turned to Lominan to ensure that she had spotted the sentries. With her straight nose and cobalt eyes, the ascendant, hairless like all their fellows, a little taller than her apprentice, gave an impression of severity. Her respondent Finella, for her part, had more shapely arms and shoulders, a pretty round face and slight lips, quick to smile.

Lominan shivered, and not just because of the sentinels. When would they see again the mother city? For the fused magician and herself, Belenia had become a place almost as dangerous as the Forest of Shadows of bleak memory.

The guards were sitting on stone posts, one with a spear against his shoulder and the other with a club on his knees. They were probably brooding over the events of the day because they did not notice the passage of the two intruders. With the bridge over the Ig crossed, and the last two sentries at a distance, Lominan breathed more easily. Spread out over three hundred yards on the plain, in the dim starlight between the clouds, one could guess the silhouettes of feless’tu. Few isolates remained in the city and its surroundings, evidence of the effectiveness of the network set up by Sinistan. Seduced by the servant of Valshhyk’s amberrock, most mil’ser had deserted the city under cover.

The curious remained below the hill on top of which had gathered krongos and hierarchs. As numerous as they were, they weren’t reckless enough to climb the slope in order to spy on conversations.

The grass, made brittle by the frost, creaked underfoot. Lominan thanked Meglian-Wulchan in thought—the previous night, the magician had provided them with pants and coats of linguilis wool. Among the curious, servants of Malia were recognizable by the cut of their short capes. Nervous, worried about the fate of their mistress, they evidently awaited instructions. The magician and his apprentice brushed one of them without the malian noticing before starting to climb. With each step she made, Lominan’s concentration flickered. It was not so much the extra effort caused by the slope, which was relatively gentle. Emotions were doing their best to twist her insides. Even by the standards of their species, the three krongos standing guard had an impressive size—they must measure over nine feet in height. They were large, too, and thick. The spear one of them was holding was long enough to impale one of the motionless melepeks several feet away. The flint ax and the stone club at his two companions’ belts must be able to cut a malian in two or crush her.

Thank goodness they didn’t decide to enter the city armed with these weapons. A bloodbath could probably not have been avoided.

Lominan returned her gaze to the slender figures with four arms twenty yards away, frail reeds facing the colossi. That Elisan-Finella chose to direct her steps toward the hierarchs was hardly reassuring. How would the krongos react when she and her companion became visible again?

Beside her, the magician was suddenly seized with a great tremor. The Bubble seemed to flicker for a moment. Elisan and Finella’s shoulders slumped. Lominan stared at the fused in dismay. Neither the ascendant nor the respondent were the type to panic, even in unusual circumstances.

But was it really fear that had just gripped them? Elisan wasn’t looking at the krongos. Her features were heavy with grief. She moved on, and the voices of Malia’s servants soon reached them, weak and yet distinct. Among them was Talja’s, made hoarse by the years. Elisan-Finella’s appearance and bearing were modified drastically, to the point that Lominan wondered if the magician had been as shaken as she had thought a moment before.

... they were to rejoin you toward the port, maybe they are still looking for you there.

Unless they have decided to take advantage of the confusion to undertake without delay the journey to Guernal or Halian. The whispering tone was that of Guelza, the High Hierarch’s respondent.

That would be a surprise for us, said a third character that could only be Meglian, why would they have deprived themselves of the rowing boat stocked with food that we were to provide them with? Furthermore, they could not ignore the dramatic appearance of our... friends. Elisan is well placed to know the importance of consulting with them, it was one of the objectives of her mission. Believe us, they will not be long in coming.

Unless...

In that I won’t contradict you, my friend.

As Elisan uttered these words, Lominan felt as if the ground gave way under her feet. Her mistress had broken contact with the Original Drop without warning, making her let go in the process. The sensation of something missing was overwhelming—her alveoli appeared to her to be about to wither. Feverishly, she sought contact with the Drop again.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a movement.

One of the krongos standing higher had moved, he pointed to them with an index finger the size of a bar stool. He must have spoken, for one of his peers emerged at his side, apparently ready to make use of his massive double-bladed ax. The other motioned to him to stop. Their eyes without pupils glowed with a milky radiance in the dark while they stared down at the two magicians as if their glare had the power to nail them to the floor—which was not far from being the case, Lominan whose legs suddenly got heavier, realized. What they could be saying with their heads tilted toward each other, she was not able to guess any more than she was able to capture the sounds of the discussion troubling the group of stone companions barely ten yards away. Their figures more or less distinct depending upon the course of clouds, some were shaking their heads or trampling the earth, sending up dust without producing any sound. There was magic involved.

Elisan-Finella and the feless’tu, turned in profile, were also gazing at the krongos. A brief examination did not allow Lominan to spot the hierarch in the Master of the Shells’ payroll among the malians. She was not surprised. Either he did not have the nerve to show up, or he’s not close to Talja-Guelza. The traitor almost caught them at the crucial moment in the Eye-opener Pool the previous night, when Elisan’s last memories had returned to her. If Finella had not reacted so quickly, subjugating him using a Bubble of Influence, his real master, Ulinan-Dalna, would probably have been warned that the defiler had been found...

I did not think they could be so agitated, murmured Elisan.

This is our fate, and that of the world such as we know it, that they debate, assured Talja. Despite her frail figure, the High Hierarch still exuded the same authority. Her chin stood out in the dim light like an accusing finger. We have told them of your revelations and Lominan’s. They know. The last two words were loaded with something that went beyond bitterness. Despair, thought Lominan, shuddering. The certainty of impending disaster.

You told them everything? How did they react?

Talja hesitated. Her mahsann short cape with wide sleeves fluttered in the evening breeze like a shimmering waterfall. They were dismayed, she finally replied.

And angry, intervened one of the hierarchs in a high-pitched tone. We thought, Malia’s chosen one, that our last moments came when you announced the loss of the Terenxar’s Stone.

A delicate moment, Talja agreed. This krongos looked... impetuous, which is rare among those of their species.

And he calmed down by himself? inquired Elisan.

We have revealed the sad truth to them, that our ‘Guide’ had raised an army for the sole purpose of finding the Stone. The way Talja pronounced the title spoke volumes about what she thought of the Hortal’s governance. Thereafter, everyone has listened to us in silence. Profound silence.

Our Master of the Shells, said Meglian ironically, was already not in particularly good favor with our friends, and that account, needless to say, will do little to put him back in their good graces. The magician peppered the remark by straightening, with one of his swift gestures, the woolen cloak on his and his respondent’s shoulders. Lominan guessed that the jaws of several hierarchs were clenched at the mention of him to whom they owed their exile. One of them, an ascendant, cleared her throat before speaking in turn.

Hopefully they believed you, your Grace, about the corruption of the Stone by this crimson shaman, and the use he made of the artifact... Her voice was slightly nasal. I mean, I in no way intend to question your word, but... You have to remember, the one among us sent to the peddler’s lair has returned convinced of the krongos’ departure to another city. He said he had seen nothing at all over there.

Oh, but he has seen, do not doubt, Elisan’s harsh voice cut in. He was just forced to turn around. And forget.

Like all those who were brought to enter this place when the crimson shaman was there, Finella completed.

Talja observed the ascendant and respondent without trying to hide her sadness. We barely dare to imagine what you have been through...

But at least, whispered Guelza, you’ve managed to recover your memory. You can now attest to the power of this sorcery.

And we will, concluded Elisan. Before them. She indicated with a movement of her chin the descendants of Kerengar.

Talja lowered her eyelids in assent. We’re happy that you and Finella are yourselves again. Lominan could not help thinking that she had to force herself to put some emphasis in her words.

One of the very few pieces of good news in a long time, confirmed Guelza.

There was silence. The krongos nearby were still deliberating.

Lominan bit her lip, struck by a sudden question. She should have asked herself the question earlier, but the storming in of the stone people’s envoys in Belenia had been so brutal, the following events so surprising... How did they know, she asked, about the one who was murdered? She sensed frowns in the dark, but didn’t take offense. They knew even before entering the city, for sure. They took everyone by surprise. And they went right to his den...

The krongos do not need Turquoise Water in order to commune, explained Finella in her smooth voice. Being grounded is enough for them. If we are to believe the archives, they can connect with each other regardless of the distance. When one of them has fallen, they know it.

Finella’s words plunged everyone deep in thought. The krongos were still arguing, with no sound to make the air vibrate. Lominan hoped that it would not take them several days to reach a decision. For them, time moved at a different pace—their longevity could exceed several hundred years.

She found herself swaying slowly in place. Since she had witnessed the release of the Lord of Destruction through the Crystal of Foresight, she had not even considered that sleep may still have a hold over her. Who could say whether the nylevs, those beings of fire, were not going to emerge from under the earth at this very moment... According to ancient writings found in the library of the Cocoon, the demons needed faults in the earth’s crust in order to materialize. Lominan blinked, but her eyes found no spot on which they could rest. How did she get here? Could she have guessed that night what she was getting into? When her master, the toropones grower Ezechian-Uzeve, had concealed her alongside the isolate Mital and some others in the stiffling mugginess under the false bottom of his cart? Thus confined, they had left Belenia without being investigated. Leaning over the Great Rift, Mital gazes at the abyss. To his right, Sinistan gives him a venomous smile while preparing his whip.

Lominan winced. The last moments of her companion in exile had been the most terrifying. The flame that emerged from the depths engulfs him entirely, and he does not take long to transform...

She was seized with a powerful shudder. Valshhyk’s power was immeasurable... If she intended not to go mad, she must divert the course of her thoughts. The morbid images, however, had begun to succeed one another relentlessly, in disorder, as if suddenly freed by the memory. The skin, calcined between strewn blisters. The bright arcs of the circle of the whip.

By dint of striving to push them back, Lominan was getting exhausted. The mauve blood droplets. The crimson pulsations emanating from the gulf to the rhythm of the heartbeats of the unnamed monster lurking in the depths. The nylev’s tortured silhouette that, gradually, devours Mital’s...

Then the idea of applying to herself the methods she had so often used with Elisan-Finella’s dual consciousness in the Eye-opener Pool came to her mind. The effect was immediate. She felt herself transported into a very different place, into a cave filled with water where a small current was noticeable. The underground river, the Helian, had in its time brought her blissful oblivion. She would have loved so much to stay there longer...

Her glumass was gradually stiffening. At one point, Elisan gently shook her shoulder. Lominan raised her chin. The stars had become more numerous in the firmament. The muffled sound of something massive was approaching. She looked down at the krongos whose epidermis would have reminded her of blue flint, but for the sparkles dappling him and making him at that very moment a living reflection of the sky. The feet of the colossus molded the floor as if he knew intimately every bump in spite of the darkness. Directly fused to the skin, at his side, a large flint blade swung according to his movements—silver streaks radiating from the point where the weapon joined the hip. The giant gave the impression of having suffered the indignity of a thousand storms, his features emerging from them ever more furrowed, yet without losing their character in the process. His face was indeed crossed by regular and vigorous lines. The nose was straight, honest, the cheekbones high and the eyes sunken.

The descendant of Kerengar eyed Lominan and Elisan-Finella in turn. In the milky sparkles there was an unfailing will and knowledge from another age and intelligence. Lominan thought she detected sorrow there, too. The same sadness tinged with bitterness that was painted in the folds of his rough lips.

I am told that one of you possesses the power of Malia? he asked gruffly.

Lominan shot a nervous glance at Elisan. The ascendant remained motionless, examining the krongos as she would have done with a particularly interesting object of study. Among the hierarchs, no one moved. Lominan longed for Elisan to be more responsive. Finding herself gripped by the stone colossus’ hand was hardly an enviable prospect, and that flint blade at his side looked really sharp.

Have you lost your tongue? growled the krongos. This time, his expression no longer contained any mark of sadness.

Elisan continued to stare at him silently. Then she looked away, and her cobalt eyes rested on her apprentice. Lominan, she asked, do you think we should agree to talk to someone who shows us no respect? Do you think it would be a sound basis for discussion?

Lominan shrank and sketched a step back. She expected the worst now, and dared not utter a sound.

Respect? You think Xilker was afforded respect? If you are Upholders of Harmony, then you have failed in your mission. The tumult of words out of the krongos’ mouth was reminiscent of large boulders tumbling down a cliff. You let a crimson shaman enter your city with complete impunity. You let him desecrate the lair of one of our own, and commit the irredeemable.

Elisan was content to shake her head.

If Elisan-Finella is guilty, then so are we, said Meglian-Wulchan, advancing with a firm step.

The krongos pointed his glare at the new speaker, towering over him from his full height—a rock facing a slender-tree sapling.

Meglian didn’t even flinch. The same could not be said of the hierarchs, who moved nervously.

At the very moment Lominan’s legs threatened to turn into moss, Finella’s sweet voice rose distinctly in the icy air. We have been trapped, she confessed. The power of the Terenxar’s Stone has been turned against us. Elisan vigorously cleared her throat but, already, a second krongos’ silhouette, this one with ocher skin, of a shorter height than the blue-skinned giant, was approaching. The krongos’ features were crossed with even deeper folds. His nose was wider and his eyes were flush with his face. Lominan recognized him as the oldest krongos, the mage who had erected a glowing shield around his fellows earlier in the day.

Don’t you think, Daknar, he asked, looking up at the blue-skinned krongos, that it’s time to invite these three malians to explain to us in their turn? If they have something to say?

The other emitted a cavernous growl that possibly indicated agreement.

If you don’t mind joining us, followers of the harmony? asked the old krongos, bowing his head stiffly.

Elisan finally broke the silence. This is much better, she nodded. Come on, my friends.

Meglian-Wulchan, Elisan-Finella and Lominan advanced toward the group of tall silhouettes at the top of the hill. With every step she took, Lominan had to fight not to reopen herself to the Original Drop—terror knotted her insides. By invoking the power of Malia, she would free her mind of all emotion except for the attraction to the Drop.

That is precisely where the danger lies. She let out a long sigh. In front of her, Elisan-Finella moved without hesitation, proud and dignified. The respondent gave a smile that Lominan failed to return. The feless’tu magician was probably eager to take revenge upon fate, but it was not her problem. She did not see herself as having the soul of a damned hero! If Lominan hadn’t been certain that Ulinan-Dalna’s guards would never leave her alone in Belenia, she would already have returned to her shell. Were her chest and beryls waiting for her there? I could have tried to check without too much risk using the Bubble of Vision, she realized. At least checked the chest. The gems inside could not have been made out without a light source.

She stroked the fabric of the bag containing a third of Isidel-Vidlan’s fortune. Elisan-Finella knew what she was doing by giving her all these beryls. The magician knew her too well. Perhaps better than she knew herself.

Elisan-Finella and Lominan froze a few steps from the stone beings, Meglian-Wulchan taking up a position to their right. The krongos closed the circle around them, a living heterogeneous wall. The smallest of them, the mage, was two or three inches taller than the tallest of malians—Elisan-Finella. However, it was mostly the colossi’s thickness that made their presence so overwhelming. Their shoulders gave the impression of being able to hold up the mountains, their torsos announced the power of the builders of the legendary cities, and their thighs brought to mind slender-tree trunks. Eight pairs of unchanging eyes stared at them. For as much as these were devoid of pupils, they were no less alert and more unsettling even than the girth of the descendants of Kerengar.

I am Daknar, began the krongos with the starry skin, the Last Circle Representative. And here is Keljas, the most venerable of us. He pointed to the mage. Your Guardian of the temple told us about a magician named Elisan-Finella. Is that you?

Elisan scanned the krongos before returning to Daknar. We can confirm, she replied.

We would like to get details. What was your role in recent events, exactly?

Elisan nodded, before going into the story of the last few months. Lominan listened attentively, proud to see her former mistress’ memory restored. Conversely, she was unpleasantly surprised when Elisan left untold the meeting with the hevelens and the role they had played during their journey. Elisan’s voice tensed when she recounted, in a few quick sentences, her visit in the lair of the krongos whose name was Xilker.

At the end of her story, one of the other colossi stepped forward. He wore white woolen clothing of linguilis that contrasted with his dark skin. At his belt hung an impressive club. "You said that you followed the mil’ser cart along the Great Rift?"

For part of the course, yes.

How did you manage to withstand the fumes?

Elisan smiled. She reached into her game-bag and pulled out one of the necklaces of Cilamon, which she raised above her face. We had this.

Embedded into the knots of softwood cilamen, the gems of the necklace were barely visible. A brighter glow crossed the krongos’ yellow eyes. Priceless artifacts, indeed. How did they come into your possession? The bass voice brought to mind rolling thunder before the storm.

Lominan’s pupils dilated. Elisan, far from sharing her fright, now smiled from ear to ear!

Would you happen to be the krongos who handed these necklaces of Cilamon over to the hevelen, Xuven Arimal, and his nephew? she asked in her crystalline voice. If that is the case, we are very grateful.

The krongos made no answer. The anger had not disappeared from his time-weathered face, but he seemed to ponder.

I said nothing about them before, clarified Elisan, hoping to inspire a reaction. In reality, Xuven and Pelmen accompanied us on a good part of the journey.

They have been valuable allies, said Finella.

You like to live dangerously. I almost believed that you had taken these necklaces from their corpses. I could still believe it, by the way... A disturbing glow reappeared fleetingly in his eyes.

Without the shaman Xuven’s power over Aoles, declared Elisan, we wouldn’t be alive any longer.

Are they well?

Elisan pursed her lips and Lominan immersed herself in the contemplation of her webbed feet.

At the time when we... when we split up, they were alive. The ascendant’s voice had lost some of its confidence. "We had arrived near the foothills of the Uncrossable Mountains. Sinistan and his crimson shamans were about to catch up with us. We had to use the power of Malia to escape them, but we were only able to camouflage Lominan. The hevelens had to fend for themselves. We have not seen them since."

There was silence. The gaze of the krongos with woolen clothes never left Elisan. Lominan read sadness there.

Is that so... Terrible news. My name is Fekkar. Xuven was a friend. We traveled together several times through the Windy Steppes.

We are sorry.

Eyelids lowered, Fekkar plunged into contemplation. Lominan wondered whether his attitude could be explained by grief and nostalgia. Was he communicating with the earth to obtain the death confirmation of the shaman of the little people? Daknar, along with some of the krongos, gazed at him with sympathy.

When Fekkar spoke again, it was in a resolute tone. If Xuven has chosen to entrust you two with necklaces of Cilamon, it means that he regarded you as his allies. The dual pale hearths within his eyes went from Elisan to Lominan. He would have been happy to know that you were able to escape, whatever the means employed. The ways of Malia differ from those of Aoles.

Was it really you who handed the necklaces over to them? Lominan asked in a shy voice.

Indeed, child of harmony. I do not regret it. He nodded toward Daknar and stepped back. As far as I’m concerned, that will suffice for now.

Daknar’s shoulders, spiked with crystals, reflected the brightness of the stars. The krongos seemed thoughtful.

Can we know what you are planning? asked Elisan.

The Last Circle Representative stared at her for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Then he turned his head toward one of his own who stepped aside, revealing an individual crouching a little further away, a hand to the ground. On a sign, he raised it from the ground. Immediately, snatches of conversation were heard, carried by the breeze.

Another mage, realized Lominan. How many are there?

Phrochos, request the other malians to join us.

One of the three krongos wearing clothes bowed slightly before Daknar and complied.

We’re going to need you and your powers, the stone giant finally answered. You owe a debt to our people. You’re going to pay it off.

The ascendant blinked but said nothing. Silence fell, broken only by the faint rustling of grass further down, agitated by the breeze. Soon, footsteps were added to that sound, announcing the arrival of the small group of malians. Talja-Guelza leading them, the hierarchs rejoined Lominan, Elisan-Finella and Meglian-Wulchan inside the circle formed by the stone beings.

The sound of wind broke off suddenly, even though the breeze still caressed their faces. Lominan was convinced that the second mage, now out of sight, had just resorted again to his power to ensure the confidentiality of exchanges.

The task will not be easy, said Daknar. Our only hope lies in the most precious legacy of Kerengar, our God. Unfortunately, the supreme artifact that we call the Orb of Kerengar is buried in the ruins of Terenxinar.

Lominan had the feeling she wasn’t the only one never to have heard of the Orb. She was particularly surprised by Elisan-Finella’s questioning glance. She had always regarded the magician as a fount of knowledge—belief reinforced by the shared intimacy in the Eye-opener Pool. The secret must have been well kept for the Upholder of Harmony to be unaware.

Before the golems’ Revolt and the fall of Terenxinar, explained Daknar, the Orb had allowed us to achieve the impossible. The sacred object is able to absorb the properties of any mineral, simply by touching it. One just has, over a given period of time, to put it in contact with another inert object for it to acquire the characteristics of the mineral touched first. One can thus transform granite into a mixture of granite and amberrock. The lightest quartz acquires the weight and strength of the blue flint. Daknar’s eyes were lost in space for a moment. Such power is obviously invaluable, he whispered. A sigh escaped his stone lips. In older days, whole sections of mountain were transformed in a few moments. Their surface just had to be seamlessly composed of the same rock. That is how the walls of Terenxinar have for several millennia been deemed indestructible, having acquired the hardness of blue flint thanks to the Orb. The crystal golems have been the only force in the world capable of destroying them.

Talja-Guelza lowered her prominent chin. She seemed not in any way surprised.

I see the names of these abominations were not lost in the limbo of oblivion, commented Daknar, despite the short life of your fellows.

Talja raised her arches. How could they have been? she said in her guttural voice. It’s those golems who razed Astian. Besides, had you not entrusted us with the Terenxar’s Stone in order to get our forgiveness?

We do not have to answer for the Northerners’ crimes. The response of the krongos with blue skin had rolled like thunder.

Ironically, intervened Keljas, in a deep and soothing voice, the Northerners’ mages had developed the first of those servants with the sole purpose of protecting Terenxinar. They thought they were on top of their game. But they finally brought out from land other crystal golems, dedicated to destruction. Without remorse, they ordered them to fight us.

Us, their own Western brethren! A very old fire suddenly seemed to have lit in Daknar’s eyes. The old mage, Keljas, had a serious look on his face.

Blinded by their arrogance and thirst for power, they sought to produce too many. While speaking, Daknar had slowly folded his fingers into his palms, forming two powerful fists. And that’s how they sealed their fate. The monsters have escaped their control. The golems’ power was such that they could not be stopped, not even when they began to attack the foundations. The largest city ever built from krongos memory... The colossus paused. More than nine thousand eight hundred years ago Terenxinar was destroyed, and yet it is still possible for one of us, approaching the ruins, to sense the presence of the Orb. Unfortunately, those who tried to snatch the legacy of Kerengar from the rubble never returned. In time, during the struggles against Valshhyk, our ranks have lessened. We’ve become too few to consider venturing into this accursed place.

And you think we would do better than you? Elisan asked incredulously.

Your powers are different. You, the malians, know how to blend into the background when the need arises.

Now that the Terenxar’s Stone is in the hands of the servants of Valshhyk and Sinistan, Keljas clarified, it would be crazy to try to take it back from them. The only artifact that can counter the power of the Stone is the Orb.

How? asked Meglian.

Daknar turned to the other krongos. Several, including Keljas, nodded.

By means of carmalite, answered the krongos with the starry skin. An extremely rare rock. It’s only found in the fringes of the Marlava region.

The name awakened a memory in Lominan. She had seen it written on a map. Marlava was a country, or territory, larger than most. It was located in the northeast, beyond the Great Rift and the Icy Peaks mountain range.

Not only does carmalite resist heat, Daknar revealed, but it also has the ability to smother flames. Unfortunately, we did not discover its existence until centuries after the burying of the Orb. If that stupid war with our northern brothers had not taken place... Carmalite is very brittle and doesn’t melt, so we were never able to incorporate it into our weapons and armor. With the Orb, it would have been possible. He paused, as if to give more weight to his words. But there is no time for regret any longer. If we succeed in our quest, the world will change. We will be able to use the artifact... on the walls of the Great Rift itself.

The malians looked at each other. Lominan held her breath.

Keljas solemnly spoke again. The history of the world seemed etched on his venerable face. We know how to listen to the earth, he said as if in response to an unasked question. We know the exact composition of the Great Rift’s rock. It indeed offers great uniformity. It might work.

This will be our greatest success, hammered Daknar. The survival of all beings on Ardalia is at stake. Valshhyk advances by quartering the ground. He widens the faults in the crust of our father Kerengar in order to increase his realm. His creatures, the nylevs, are at first flames springing from the Rift. When they reach living beings, these flames take their souls and become independent. Through contact with the Orb, permeated with the properties of carmalite, the whole Rift will become a prison for the Destroyer. The fault extends all the way to Ixal, so it’s likely that the volcano itself will be affected. The Immolated will no longer be able to melt rock and bring forth its flames. His nylevs will no longer take shape.

This last point was the subject of a debate among us, Keljas clarified. It has not yet been resolved.

Daknar scowled. Even if Valshhyk is not immediately suffocated, he will no longer be able to expand. From then on, if he doesn’t withdraw into his volcano, Ixal, we’ll compel him to do so. His army will be vulnerable.

If, of course, it has not destroyed us all by then, squeaked Talja.

It’s either that or engage in a war that will cost you and the little people of the wind countless deaths, said Daknar. According to you, your Hortal and his army have mistaken their enemies. The outcome will be all the more compromised...

And the nexus? inquired Meglian. May it be renewed?

Daknar beckoned Keljas to answer. The elder’s features reflected his bitterness.

It may, but only if Daknar’s plan succeeds. Venturing just on the outskirts of Ixal, when the cursed God has just freed himself from his prison, would be suicidal. In the past, the nexus could only be renewed at the cost of terrible sacrifices among us. And even then... Had Valshhyk not decided, after several centuries of war, to use all his energy to destroy us, if his attention was not so focused on our city of Ocherrock, the magicians led by Ekelran could not have succeeded in their mission. The Destroyer won’t make the same mistake again.

The name Ocherrock didn’t remind Lominan of anything—this had to be one of the cities of the krongos. Ekelran, however, was a mage of the stone people, the main instigator of the Seal’s Renewal. The events that led to the invocation of the elemental barrier and the imprisonment of Valshhyk were narrated by the malanite magician Shezea in her Peregrinations. Lominan remembered with a shudder the fate of the most famous isolate. The Immolated has poisoned us, such were the last words written by her hand. At the time, Lominan had found the epic very entertaining, without actually giving credence to the denouement. A final exaggeration, an end full of lyricism to finalize the work and increase the reputation of its creator, this is what she had seen in the conclusion. She had read that copy of Peregrinations in the library of the mil’ser shelter where she grew up. She didn’t know the world, then. The very existence of Valshhyk seemed more than questionable to her.

I would have so dearly loved to continue believing he was just a legend for scaring children and the gullible. The Immolated... More recently, Lominan had taken advantage of her stay in the temple of Malia to interrogate the scrivener there. The answer had confirmed her fears. The game-bag containing Shezea’s Peregrinations had indeed been found near the magician’s lifeless body. Ekelran, Shezea and the hevelen shaman named Frekes had indeed triumphed in their endeavor, but none of them had made it very far on the return journey.

A meditative silence had followed the words of Keljas. Talja-Guelza was the first to react, addressing Daknar. So you wish for our best magicians to accompany you in your lands, beyond the Icy Peaks. No malian has ever managed to climb these mountains.

No krongos had offered his help, retorted Daknar.

Meglian cleared his throat. We’re sorry, but for our part, we must decline your proposal. Daknar eyed him up and down from his full height. It’s not that we question the wisdom or merits of your plan, quite the contrary. Unfortunately, the best laid plans would serve us nothing if when we returned, we were to find Belenia in ruins. The current stranglehold of the Master of the Shells, Ulinan-Dalna, on the city, at a time when the purity of the Turquoise Water is in jeopardy, does not bode well for the future. As the protector of the mother city, we must remain. Meglian-Wulchan turned toward Talja-Guelza. We will try to keep in touch with the hierarchs of the temple, so that, if necessary, we can take action by mutual agreement. If the messengers who left in search of the Hortal return, we will keep you informed.

Talja and her respondent approved in unison. Daknar, for his part, fixed his milky gaze on Elisan-Finella and Lominan. And what about you? he asked. What do you have in mind?

Elisan watched him quietly before turning to Lominan. The latter liked nothing of what she saw on the ascendant’s face. She knew her well enough to recognize sadness and a form of resignation, but mostly, a fierce determination. Elisan returned toward Daknar.

As we guess, you’ve not told us everything about the dangers of this mission, she uttered in her pure voice. However, if the Orb is what can swing the course of destiny in the right direction, we have to find it. Things have already turned... unpleasant enough.

Lominan refrained from raising her eyes up to heaven. Unpleasant! And Talja-Guelza sketched a gesture of approval! She opened her mouth to protest but, to her dismay, no sound came out.

Daknar’s facets, impregnated with ancient wisdom, rested on her. Lominan wanted to disappear. She didn’t want to suffer the fate of Shezea!

All those terrible things you’ve experienced... you’d like to forget them, wouldn’t you? Finella whispered, crossing her arms. You would be content with living a peaceful life.

Lominan pursed her lips. With her round face and her little, hemmed mouth, the respondent was the opposite of a fast-flowing mountain stream, a lake of calm water. Judging her according to appearance, however, was the one thing to avoid—Finella couldn’t have overcome all the hardships of the past if there had only been sweetness about her. However inconspicuous her determination, it was no less real. "We know you as if you were our mil’nan."

Daknar had put his hands on his hips. He and the other krongos were watching, maintaining their perfect stillness.

But we also know the extent of your power, continued Finella, uncrossing her arms. Of course, you did not choose this gift that is yours. Neither did you want to find yourself right in the middle of this. These changes, they are bigger than you. They are bigger than all of us. But at least we try to react. To adapt. Would it not be a terrible waste, an insult to the Goddess, to act as if this gift didn’t exist, at the very moment when it can help us change the world for the better?

Lominan looked at Finella with dismay. A respondent was not supposed to speak at such length... unless her ascendant had decided so. Finella, being the least strict of the two, the closest to her, was in a better position to manipulate her.

Do you even understand the sacrifices you demand? An instrument in your hands, that’s all I am, is that right?

Sacrifices—everyone has to make them, Elisan intervened in a strangely husky voice.

Elisan felt something, Finella continued so quietly that Lominan had to prick up her ears to understand the words. Earlier, just before we came onto this hill. We... we’ll never see Felgolian-Bulson again.

Lominan raised her arches. Felgolian, Elisan’s soulmate, had gone to the steppes with the Hortal and his army. If something had happened to him, the chances were good that they had battled. But against whom?

No need to speak about this, Elisan said, clenching her jaw.

We are convinced about this, Finella went on, regardless of the interruption. Elisan and I have had the impression of being sucked into a water hole. Our true enemy is behind this. You, yourself, saw the Destroyer break free from his prison.

The choice is yours, declared Elisan, pivoting toward Lominan and probing her with her cobalt eyes. Either you decide to return to Belenia, and every day, you’ll have to do your best that Ulinan-Dalna and his servants do not find you. You could also run away to hole up in another city. There, you’ll have plenty of time to be on the lookout for the first signs of demons. Or else, you face your destiny head-on and decide to accept, with our help, what fate has in store for us. Whatever your decision, danger will, in any case, be present."

A rictus twisted Lominan’s mouth. How magnanimous, she spat. I guess I have to sing your praises for this brilliant scene! Then, turning to Daknar irritably: You can be happy. I believe that your expedition has one more designated victim.

Chapter Two – CONTRARY WINDS

The final fighting clamors rose in the plain littered with corpses. Those, slender, of the grayskins, clad in reed-padded armor or shell plates, often blackened, smoldering, with angular shapes and smooth skulls, were much more numerous than their enemies’ dead bodies caparisoned in amberrock. Here, a malian’s arm, detached from the trunk, was still clutching a javelin. There, a mound of dismembered bodies bathed in a mauve pool. Kerengar, God of the Earth, could not drink all the blood of the Goddess Malia’s children. The father of the krongos, silent witness of the tragedy, had seen the Hortal and his army meet their fate at the Gate’s threshold in the Canyons of Panjurub. Their conquerors, fire beings with variable form, nylevs whose souls had been devoured by Valshhyk, roamed the plain. The main part of the victorious forces, however, was made up of warriors, either hevelens or malians, clad in the flexible, bright red and gilt metal. Their faces more often than not hidden behind helmets, they brandished broadswords or maces, their blades or tips of amberrock. Others, equipped with spears, were turning the bodies over on the ground. When they sensed a movement, they did not take any chances, piercing a chest or a throat.

There were among them some creatures no more than five feet tall wearing sackcloth, their heads hooded—crimson shamans, able to summon fire. Several gave orders to the warriors responsible for gathering the hundreds of prisoners.

And of course, there was the valnys. The monster had let out a roar that would shake creation by rushing to the algam hit by a series of explosions. Like many fighters that dark day, the son of Shalgam had ended up impaled on the fangs protruding from the chest of Valshhyk’s favorite one. The lava mountain in motion had been taken by a tremor while feasting on the blood and sacred soul. Then it had moved away by waving its tentacles, until reduced to a silhouette on the horizon.

Xuven wrinkled his triple nostrils under the acrid whiff of already rotting flesh, mixed with the smell of burning. The breath of Aoles howled in the Canyons, but here in the semi-darkness of the interior of the Gate, the wind barely touched him. The corridor enclosed in stone was narrow and oppressive. The sentries probably weren’t used to wearing out their pants on the benches near the thorn slits. The hevelens undoubtedly preferred to stand, noses pressed to the slits, drawing air from the steppes. Under normal circumstances, the vast lichen-covered expanses beyond the thick rock offered the illusion of freedom. He stepped aside. To his left, the stocky fellow whose eyes kept rolling in their sockets stood up. He adjusted his bow on his shoulder and began in turn to gaze at the scene of devastation.

Xuven unthinkingly smoothed his salt and pepper beard. The prisoners’ fate was enough to send chills down the spine. According to the accounts of the elders, they would probably be taken to the edge of the Great Rift. Handed over to the flames of the Immolated, they would become nylevs, swelling the ranks of Valshhyk’s army. What affronts would their souls suffer when subjected to corruption? His face hardened, and he thought of the fate of Lominan’s exile companion, Mital, leaning over the abyss. Xuven had not directly witnessed his ordeal that night, but the heartbreaking howl of the poor devil had come to him, in the distance. Conquer or die had always been the battle cry of the Destroyer’s enemies—not without reason.

They... they come! THEY ARE COMING! The bowman had turned his crazy eyes toward Xuven. The same cry was echoed throughout the observation posts, the same fever took hold of the defenders. Xuven rested a hand on his companion’s shoulder. In doing so, he gently repelled him. A glance through the thorn slits enabled him to assess the exact nature of the danger. Flanked by warriors in shimmering armor, crimson shamans were advancing, forming an implacable line. He spoke to the hunter in a controlled voice.

Aoles is with us today. Don’t move from here.

The defender of the Gate examined, eyes wide, the master of the wind, with his hair combed backward and tied with a cord, whom the Indomitable Hunter ordered them to obey. Then bowed deferentially.

Xuven remained as a block of granite. A keen observer, however, would have noticed the slight softening of his features and the gleam of satisfaction in his gray iris.

Among the other sentinels, nobody seemed willing to desert his post for now.

His spectacular arrival, and that of his companions, hanging on the algams’ talons had sparked the fervor of the troops. The news had spread as fast as the wind. Hardly had they begun to make their way among the warriors than the Aguerri known as the Indomitable Hunter, Tchulen Poindivoire, hurtled from the guard post in order to determine what the fuss was about. Similar in size to Xuven—four and a half feet—he could have been confused with one of his hevelens, if it were not for the proud coat of white-haired nidepoux fur he was clothed with and, hanging to his broad shoulders, the cape embroidered with his emblem. At the sight of the ocher liveries of the majestic sons of Shalgam flying over, the Aguerri’s amazement was deep. Unsettled, he was not concerned about the absence of the Wonderworker, Eloan Aenes, among the shamans. Even more surprisingly, he had agreed to Xuven’s request without asking any questions. From the Hunter, a concession of such magnitude was alarming. The one called the Protector of the hevelens would not have agreed to hand over command of the defenders of the Gate to a shaman, if he had not felt overwhelmed by the situation.

By discovering the nightmarish chaos on the other side, Xuven had understood. His most pessimistic calculations had fallen short of reality.

He turned.

Jalguen and you others! he thundered. Position yourselves in front of the thorn slits! Make ready your Wind’s Fists. His old friend, Stenlen Milempas’ classmate in a previous life, nodded before passing the order on.

Xuven had remained stunned a moment, powerless, at the magnitude of the threat. Perhaps it had been Tchulen Poindivoire’s eyes resting on him that had forced him to react. His predatory eyes stared at you unblinkingly—it was hard not to feel embarrassed under the examination. In any case, Xuven had finally pulled himself together, at last managing to break away from the vision of horror—some of the malians who had fallen from enemy blows were so young! He had to assume the role that was assigned to him by Aoles, God of the Wind and Destiny. The Aguerri Tchulen had repeatedly failed to ensure the travelers’ safety in the Steppes, to the point that Selenice Milempas suspected him of being corrupt. It was time to prepare a special demonstration for him. One Tchulen would not forget anytime soon.

He had gathered the seven shamans to issue instructions to them. His plan would only have a chance of success with the support of new masters of the wind transported by algams. No one should act crazy in the heat of the moment. And woe to them if he, Xuven, did not anticipate correctly the actions of the enemy.

He squinted. The malians—all isolates—differed from the hevelens by their size and delicacy. Whatever they were, the warriors would not be easy to shoot down—shooting between the joints of their armor at that distance was a real challenge. The crimson shamans, meanwhile, wore only chanvreline sackcloth. They were confident of their invulnerability.

He missed his good tanner hevelen in this crucial moment. Over the moons where both had chased game in the Steppes or eliminated the beasts driven insane by the fumes of the Great Rift, he was accustomed to rely on the boy’s skill with a bow. Except for a terrible mistake on his part, Pelmen was to ride his algam right now. There had been a brief skirmish between his group and the crimson shamans, but to his knowledge, the only Rider having fallen from his mount in full flight had thrown a spear shortly before his brutal fate. Therefore it couldn’t be his nephew. He still wondered why two of the Riders had convinced their algams to seize malians, disregarding all orders. Discretion was their master knucklebone. Without this rash decision, they would have gone unnoticed and could have begun their journey without having to mourn any losses.

Details on the armor appeared gradually. They formed a scattered cluster, conical, triangular or long and narrow, composed of sets of plates or in a single piece, smooth or with pointed tips. Some were blood-stained with mauve in places.

The summoners of the Destroyer’s Fire conveyed an aura of even more intense terror. The crimson shamans’ eyes shone with a madness full of hatred. There was something hypnotic about the reptilian ripples of their swaying shoulders. Xuven methodically controlled his breathing while clutching his gnarled wand. It was necessary that the defenders of the Gate keep their composure and stick to his guidelines. The Aguerri, Tchulen Poindivoire, remained behind, like a mere observer.

Valshhyk’s servants were now within range. As they continued to advance, Xuven began to doubt. What if he was wrong? It would be up to him to give the order in this case. The fighting would take a very different turn, become even more hazardous. The decisive moment was close, very close...

The crimson shamans and the warriors stopped together. The first joined their hands, which began to tremble. Their swollen or partially burned faces expressed intense pain when the fire arose in front of their palms. The fiery energy balls swelled. As one, the crimson shamans released them toward the Gate. Xuven pointed his gnarled wand, focusing on one of the balls. There were too many for their little group—the rock would have to resist, or they would all perish.

His enemies had again acted with perfect simultaneity, dispelling his last doubts. Sinistan possessed the Terenxar’s Stone indeed. The artifact had the amazing power of uniting several minds under the command of one. Thanks to the Stone, Valshhyk’s chosen one had already succeeded in coordinating the shots of his shamans in order to hit one of the algams, hitherto elusive.

"Halneven," he muttered. The wooden cilamen wand vibrated as if it was going to burst, then the air beyond the thorn slit was troubled. After a few moments, the slight distortion, signature of Wind’s Fist, disappeared. The scarlet spheres grew. Xuven prepared for the impact by gripping the rock. His first battle as Great Wonderworker was most likely to be his last.

The ball he had targeted ceased to grow. Others also ebbed. Distances and perspectives were difficult to evaluate but, counting the seconds, he became convinced that his fireball should have reached him by now.

Then the world collapsed. The series of thunderous explosions reverberated endlessly along the Gate, shaking the walls. The bowman beside Xuven covered his eyes with his hands, while Xuven himself blocked his ears. The bodies came into resonance with the rock, vibrating as if they were going to burst.

Then there was silence, briefly.

The following detonations were more distant. Before Xuven’s eyes, huge sprays of fire scattered the warriors and the shamans. If he hadn’t been so deafened, he would have heard the scraping noises of armor dragged over several hundred yards and the tumult of the bodies falling to the ground like stones. The explosions had raised large orange clouds that were amalgamating gradually.

His guts knotted, Xuven checked that his closest companions were unharmed before evaluating the state of the fixtures. Despite the stronger smell of dust, the walls did not appear to have suffered. The Gate had been built by the krongos specifically to withstand this type of attack.

The Indomitable Hunter could not suppress the tremors that shook him from head to foot. Still leaning against the wall, the Aguerri began to move sideways toward the stairs leading to the exit, like a tilscore. He did not stop at any time, despite Xuven’s cold gaze. Who then turned away, his face hardened, to check in on Jalguen and the others. He was soon reassured—no casualties among the defenders. He then returned to the thorn slit, authoritatively moving the bowman aside. Under the whirlwinds’ effects, dust began to dissipate. Many dismembered bodies were scattered in the plain. Some of them, crimson shamans’ corpses. Not every warrior of the first wave was dead, however. Some were getting up, picking up a club or a broadsword of amberrock. Most had lost their helmets. They put themselves in motion. One could see an exalted fervor in their eyes, a blood fever. In the background, the bulk of Valshhyk’s forces had gathered, on the contrary, at a respectable distance. Nobody pretended to advance toward them.

You’re up next, said Xuven.

The warrior’s eyes looked dazed, his chest rose and fell quickly.

Hey! He shook his shoulder. The interested party shuddered from head to toe. You have to, Xuven uttered riveting his flint gaze on his. For Aoles. For your people. Come on! Grabbing the bowman, he placed him in front of the thorn slit.

The hevelen did not stay in position for long. His face was distorted and he turned to the master of the house, begging.

Do it, rumbled Xuven, threatening him with his gnarled wand. Either you take care of them, or it’s I who will take care of you. Aim for the head. He refrained from tensing his jaw. The other was to see only his determination.

The hevelen took a wheezing breath and finally decided to grab one of the thorns from his quiver. As he notched, Xuven stood behind him and pointed his cilamen wand. The bowman released his thorn. Pierced from side to side at cheek level, the nearest warrior, a beanpole covered with amberrock collapsed, killed outright. The defender turned to Xuven, dumbfounded. At a sign from the master of the shamans, he notched again, much more swiftly this time.

Two additional attackers fell. Xuven had the satisfaction of not seeing them get back on their feet. By calling upon Aoles to accelerate the course of the thorns, he maximized their impact. Even a thorn that crashed against a skull was likely to at least immobilize were it not to kill.

The danger had moved away from that side. On the double, Xuven conducted an inspection of the thorn slits either side of the Gate, a huge granite sphere. On passing near the hunters and shamans, he whispered words of support to each. His companions applied his instructions to the letter, stationing themselves behind each bowman in order to make the thorns swifter and more lethal. Old Greguen himself, in charge of the northern wall, interrupted his never-ending grumbling. A wild light shone in his eyes. After having called upon Aoles, the old hevelen with his limbs as twisted as his gnarled wand unceremoniously moved the bowman aside, to rush like a young hevelen toward his thorn slit.