Unprecedented levels of agony followed in the wake of Gavin’s blood burning. It started with infinite needles heated to an infinite temperature piercing his flesh and soul at an infinitesimal rate. The needles gradually transitioned to the sensation of the layers of his flesh being forcibly separated at an agonizing rate, and just as an infinite number of maggots began feeding on him-both within his body and without, Gavin passed into blissful unconsciousness.
Chapter 4
A massive, marble edifice, the Temple of Valthon had stood in the northeast quarter of the city since the Founding following the Godswar. To the right of the main entrance, a greeter sat behind a desk. The temple’s greeter was always an acolyte in training to become a cleric, usually new to the temple and very inexperienced. Marcus paid the child no mind as he topped the steps and proceeded into the Hall of the Gods.
The Hall of the Gods was, perhaps, the largest vestibule known to exist, and it was named so for the statues that lined each wall. Every person who had chosen to accept the mantle of divinity following the Godswar had a statue here: Bellos, Kalthor, Marin, Xanta, and Irikos…among several others. Each statue was angled a bit, so that if one stood on the proper spot all the statues appeared to be facing the person.
Marcus stood in silence a few moments, taking the time to look upon each marble face. Finally, he sighed and lowered his head, saying, “I miss you all, my friends.” Then, Marcus took a deep breath and proceeded to his destination: the shrine of Valthon. He was almost late.
Ovir Thatcherson, Royal Priest of Valthon, stood near the altar in the shrine. A little shy of six feet tall, he still possessed the physique of the young cleric who had earned membership in the Warpriests of Valthon some thirty-odd years before. He kept his graying hair trimmed close, and his ease with authority shone through in every movement and mannerism. He wore the gray robes that were typical of Valthon’s clergy.
Ovir looked up at the sound of the shrine’s doors opening, and he couldn’t keep from smiling. In the doorway stood a man that was easily the shadow to his light. Black robes hung from a tall, muscular frame, and the gold runes on the sleeve-cuffs seemed almost to glow. His white hair and Vandyke beard were well-trimmed and maintained, and his piercing, blue eyes held the weight of a soul that had seen too much. A silver medallion-like those worn by all wizards-rested atop the man's sternum, but unlike every other medallion Ovir had ever seen, this man’s medallion bore no House glyph in the recessed center.
“Marcus, I’m sorry. I completely forgot we were meeting for lunch today,” Ovir said as the black-robed man approached. An acolyte rushed up with a piece of parchment. Ovir scanned it and shook his head. “No, send the warpriests to search the alleys and docks; they can handle the toughs that frequent those areas. Send the clerics, priests, and senior acolytes into the markets and more public areas where the town guard can assist if they’re in trouble.”
The acolyte nodded and hastily scribbled the corrections on the parchment before he scampered out.
“Ovir, I’ve not seen the temple in such a state for quite some time. Whatever is the matter?”
Ovir sighed and leaned against a pew. “Valthon visited me last night. I don’t know if it was a dream or if he actually took me somewhere, but we were standing in a void. He told me that the man who would stand unyielding against the forces of Skullkeep would arrive in the city today. He told me the Lornithrasa are active once again and aware of the arrival, and he said when I find him, I’m to deliver him to you…to be trained as only you can.”
Marcus sighed, shaking his head. “Ovir, you’ve kicked the entire clergy into an uproar over this; do you even know whom you-”
Marcus stopped mid-sentence, staggering. He turned to look over his left shoulder for a few heartbeats before turning back to Ovir, saying, “City map…now.”
Ovir grabbed one of the shrine’s attendants and sent him off at a sprint. He turned back to his old friend, saying, “Marcus, what is it? Are you-”
Marcus lifted his hand to forestall Ovir’s questions and closed his eyes, angling his head slightly in the direction he had stared. The attendant returned with the map, gasping for air, and Ovir laid it out on the altar. Marcus walked up and pointed to a spot in the southwestern warrens, near the docks.
“Send the warpriests there, Ovir,” Marcus said, “but warn them to be careful. The wizard they find might be more powerful than me.”
Marcus fell silent and leaned heavily against the altar. He took several deep breaths and rolled his shoulders to stretch.
“Marcus, are you well? Is there anything I can do?”
“Whoever is there just invoked a massive Interation effect. If I had to guess, the warpriests will find at least one dead body.” Marcus took one more deep breath before he stood and shook himself. “Ovir, I’ve not felt such power in ages, but it was just a raw blast…like the wizard didn’t understand what he or she was doing.”
“A first casting, maybe?” Ovir asked.
Marcus shook his head. “I don’t see how. Only a Word of Power could have produced such a resonance, and even then, there are no wizards now who are strong enough to cause what I felt. I have to be there, Ovir. I alone am equipped to protect the city from whoever this is.”
Marcus stepped back and said, “Paedryx,” invoking the Word of Transmutation that formed the basis for the modern teleportation spell. A sapphire haze that crackled with power rose out of the floor and took on the form of an arched gateway.
“You’re not going alone, my friend,” Ovir said as he stepped through the gateway first.
Kiri stared in sheer terror at the bodies lying on the ground. The young man was alive yet unconscious, but the slavers were dead. Growing up in her homeland, she’d heard stories of magic powerful enough to kill outright, but she’d never seen such a thing until now. It terrified her more than the slavers themselves had. She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees, unable to stop the oncoming sobs.
“There, there,” an aged and weathered voice said. “What’s the matter, young lady?”
Kiri looked up, her eyes full of terror. She saw an old man on one knee in front of her, a gnarled staff leaning against the building to her right. His wild, snow-white hair swayed with the slight breeze like the trees of a forest. She took in his gray robe that was tattered around the hem and the feeling of grandfatherly warmth he radiated, and she knew she should recognize him. Somewhere, she’d met this old man before.
“They’re…they’re dead,” she sobbed. “He just killed them.”
“Well, in his defense, they were trying to kill the both of you. Some would say he did you a service.”
Kiri shook her head and tightened her arms around her knees. “The Cavaliers back home are right; magic is evil.”
The old man sighed and rolled himself into a sitting position beside Kiri, putting his left arm around her and pulling her close to him. “No, child, don’t you ever think that. Magic is what we make of it. Yes, it can be one of the ghastliest things in the world…but only because vile people make it so. That young man did the one thing he could to protect the both of you. He had no sword, no armor, and no martial training at all. What was he supposed to do?”
The woman relaxed a bit and leaned into the old man. There was something about him that comforted her on every level of her soul, and with him there, the world didn’t seem like such a bad place.