Ashar'an Rising (Nexus Wars Saga) (53 page)

Javin found him weeping on the bed minutes later, still refusing to speak of what had occurred. It was some time after that the two quietly slipped out of Altaire, taking the road south under the glow of Qantari.

In the silent darkness, locked within the solitude of his pain and anguish, Valdieron pledged revenge for Kaz, and all others he knew to have fallen while aiding him against the Ashar’an.

To
any other than Ka’Varel, the enchanting image before him might have appeared as if from a dream, but Cashandaar, the City of the Dragons, seemed more a prison to him now. From the railed balcony of his room high in one of the great spires of the city, he saw beyond the gold and silver wrought city, where surrounding it lay a wall of intense fog, for this was no normal city, but a place of great magic existing between planes. The magic was unknown to Ka’Varel and any of his kind, and the Dragons would not and could not speak of it. He had been to the fabled and majestic city before, and the enormity of it amazed even him, who had seen many great and powerful things in his long life.

The almost imperceptible opening of the chamber’s main door heralded an arrival, though he knew who it would be before he turned around to see the alien features of Saranthier, in the form all Dragons took when walking the miniature halls and chambers of the City. It made Ka’Varel wonder if the Dragons did in fact craft the city or not, for it was strange they should make it like this and not enjoy it in their natural form.

Saranthier was tall; taller than Ka’Varel by a head, and muscled in a way that many men would be envious. His features were hard yet handsome, maybe a reflection of the true form beneath, and there was no mistaking the wisdom and power of his stride, demeanor and especially his pale golden eyes. This was also a reflection of the Dragon’s true form, for all Dragons had eyes the shade of their scales when in their humanoid form. His hair was dark, like the night, and held back with a thin band of gold. His clothes were regal, a dark red robe inlaid with thread of silver, and he wore slippers of fine pelt, of some animal Ka’Varel also could not determine. He wore no jewelry nor any weapon, for like Ka’Varel, he had no need of them.

His curt nod was the only greeting he gave Ka’Varel as he joined him on the balcony, moving to the railing and pressing his hands to it, showing no sign of fear at the height, for he was a creature of the air.

“
So, have the council decided?” He knew the answer to his question even as he asked it, for Saranthier would not be here if the council had not, it was just a matter of what they had decided. Though they had not needed to be told, he had retold the Dragon council what was happening on Kil’Tar, and had pleaded for their aid again, for he had found out once healed of his injuries, the Dragons had elected not to lend their support unless truly needed. Ka’Varel saw both the wisdom and the folly of such an act, for though the Dragons were of lesser number than they had been for many centuries, they were also the only true power left who could make a difference in the struggle against the Demon hosts. He knew Valdieron could not defeat them, even with all of the armies of the realms and the power of the Astral City.

“
It has been decided we shall play no part in the coming conflict.” With a soft, calm voice, none who heard it would have guessed at Saranthier’s true nature: that of an ancient Dragon, but there was a power to it Ka’Varel knew well. “One of us has already aided the Chosen One in the City of Altaire, in Zarn. That is more than he should, for he risked his safety and that of our race to aid this boy. At last account, he was headed south, towards Sha’Kar.”

“
So you do not believe in the Prophecies.” It was not a question, and there was a bitter edge to Ka’Varel’s voice as he spoke. Though he would not openly judge and criticize the Dragons for their decision, he was none the less disappointed at their decision.

“
Prophecies do not concern us, Ka’Varel. From the dawn of time we have been, and always will be, whether it is here on Kil’Tar or on another world of our choosing. Like your people, we have such ability, and can go where we please. The fate of this planet is no longer a concern of ours, not more than the longevity of our race. I am sorry.”

Ka’Varel held back an angry retort and turned his gaze back to the now not so wondrous city around him. “Then I will be leaving, at first light tomorrow. If there is anything else you know that might be of assistance, I implore you to tell me. This world may not be worth saving to you, but bitter centuries of warfare from my people have made it my home, and one I would willingly fight and die for. Each to his own, Saranthier, and may the gods grant us both peace for our final resting.”

Turning away, Ka’Varel strode across the room, his steps echoing across the marble floor. The door did not open for him as it did Saranthier, and with a withheld curse and barely contained rage, he waited for the Dragon councilor to open it for him.

“
You are an enigma to us, Ka’Varel, and you will always carry our respects for your pride and your courage, as well as your wisdom. Know that three of the Portals were opened, and now one has been closed temporarily in Lloreander. It is a glade even you did not know of, and there the Elves made bloody battle with the Demons while their Druids closed the Portal. Solantholas, leader of the Sylvaen, is dead. But so is the Demon Lord Hammagor who led the Demons, so a respite you have been granted. I hope those of the mortal races use it well.”

Ka’Varel was both shocked and surprised at the news, for although the Portal was closed down temporarily, it had come at a great cost. Solantholas was arguably the greatest warrior and commander on Kil’Tar, and his loss would be keenly felt.

He spun to face Saranthier, who had not moved from the balcony railing. “What of his son, Kalandar?”

“
The Dark Elf is also no longer of this realm, Ka’Varel.”

The news struck Ka’Varel like a blow. Kalandar, the Elf Prince of Lloreander was a focal figure in many of his prophecies, and with him dead, a feeling of dread and uncertainty struck Ka’Varel. He had been too late to save the Elf Prince. It was through his own delay such a catastrophic event had taken place, and he had let himself be waylaid. Visions of his daughter came to him as he screwed his eyes shut, and he knew there was only one thing for him to do.

He must find Valdieron and keep him safe from all harm.

The doors were opened when he turned, and he strode quickly between them, needing the peace only the Gardens could provide. He thought of Tyrun, camped now upon Kil’Tar waiting his return from the Dragon City. The Barbarian had been refused entrance to the Dragon city without justification, and Ka’Varel knew the big Barbarian would be concerned for his safety.

With a grimace, Ka’Varel ran a hand over his chest, feeling beneath his clothes the ridged scar from the near mortal wound he had received at the hands of the sword wielding brigand. A finger’s span to the right and he would be dead now, but luckily for him and maybe the world of Kil’Tar, he was a little tougher to kill than most. He cursed himself again, for though he had many prophecies about the people and places of Kil’Tar, he had only ever found or heard one that included himself. He was ‘The Fateless One’, whose future was unknown or unseen by any but the gods, which angered him. At least he was still alive, and he would see that while he was, this world he had called his home for many centuries would survive this new conflict.

Saranthier heard the echoing footfalls of Ka’Varel receding down the corridor and tried to tell himself that what they had done was for the best. Though they lived here between worlds, Kil’Tar was the real home for the Dragons, who were as much creatures of the Essence as Demons the Unlife. Here, they lived barely, free but limited in the availability of Essence, for this place was not like Kil’Tar, with its abundance of the life giving energy. There was barely enough to keep the magical city sustained, for as Ka’Varel had said, the Unlife was consuming all essence, slowly and inexorably. Soon, the city would collapse in upon itself, consumed by the magic that held it together, for there would not be enough essence to fuel it. What would happen to any Dragon left there was not known, for unlike the Kay'taari, the Dragons had only one real prophecy that spoke of their eventual demise, and none who were not of Dragonkind were allowed to know of it. But its words echoed through Saranthier’s mind as he stood looking out over his city.

Tears were not common for him, but the Dragon cried then, briefly, for although he had led a long and fulfilling life, the inevitability of his fate made him sad, not only for himself, but for the others of the mortal races who would suffer for the cowardice of Dragons. By tempting fate, and hoping the future would be different, the Dragons were all but condemning hundreds of thousands of mortals to their deaths.

His keen eyes scanned the city below, and found the complex where five of his kind sat guarding another who was held prisoner: Taranthellaar, greatest of their kind, a young and rebellious Gold dragon who had visions of fighting for the cause of these mortals and riding into battle with the Chosen One. Saranthier had known of these visions and desires at an early age for the young dragon, and had implored the council take action. He had devised a powerful magic that soothed the great Dragon each time the visions came, but in doing so, it slowly drove him insane, and now, the once great beast rested in a coma like state from which it never stirred. Still the guards were a precaution rather than a necessity, for who knew what powers the great Dragon still held, but to all appearances, it was as if he might never move again.

The tears came harder for Saranthier then as he pictured the great figure of Taranthellaar locked away as he was, devoid of coherent thought and movement, unable to feel the exhilaration of the air as he flew. It made Saranthier lament what he had done, but only for a moment before he remembered he had to break all ties to the world of Kil’Tar.

“
I am sorry, my son,” he whispered, before turning away from the balcony and the haunting visions, his eyes already dried and a look of calm resignation on his face. Whatever had to be done would be done.

“
You are sure the Haruken won’t be here in numbers, Alric?”

Kyle’s whisper echoed loudly through the small chamber, causing the Dwarves to turn towards the young man, forcing him to apologize silently. He knew echoes travelled easily underground, and although the Haruken and the Hrolth were not subterranean dwellers, they still had keen hearing.

“
Yes. Remember the Demon who tried to kill us?“ The memory made Kyle’s heavily bandaged arm begin to itch as he nodded. “Well, I think he was forcing the Haruken and Hrolth down here, where they do not prefer to be. But it is best not to take chances.” As if on cue, two dark figures slipped silently from the darkness into the chamber, and Kyle was once again amazed at the power of the pendant he now wore. A gift from Thorgast, the pendant had the ability to grant Kyle the power of Infravision, such as the Dwarves had. Although the origin of the pendant was not known, Alric had assumed it to be once used by miners employed by some great noble from the south. Kyle was glad for the gift, regardless, as it meant the group of Dwarves could travel faster and safer without the need for light.

Alric communicated briefly with the two sentries in their own tongue, something Kyle found not as harsh sounding as he would have expected from such a hard and tough race. After a moment, Alric turned and the two Dwarves, the brothers, Kalbak and Keldrik, slipped back into the darkness of the passageway.

“
All is quiet. There are a few sentries, but Kalbak and Keldrik will see to them. Ready to go?”

“
As ready as I’ll ever be,” sighed Kyle, who was fast becoming tired of travelling, and wished often he had stayed back in Thorhus with Natasha. “You know, I had expected to stay in Chul’Haka for a little longer than six days.”

Alric smiled at this. “Well, it is sometimes strange how life works out. At least you will soon be able to say you have visited the Astral City, something not a lot of others can lay claim to.”

“
We won’t get to see it if you two don’t stop chattering,” chipped in Ishaar at their side, and the two shared a brief chuckle before the Dwarf clapped Kyle on the arm: the left, not his bandaged right arm.

“
Let’s go get you healed, lad.”

With one final glance behind him where the entrance to the Vault lay, Kyle followed Alric from the chamber, trying to block out the numbing pain in his arm, and the feeling of dread in his heart.