Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (41 page)

They came with hardly a warning,

thousands both beautiful and terrible;

They came on brilliant white horses

wearing shining gold and shimmering blue;

They came with dragons and whirlwinds,

and giants made of stone and earth;

They came and nothing could stop them.

They are coming still.

The voice issued from the doorway and all heads turned as into the great hall entered an old man. It was hard to say what caught Hadrian’s eyes first, as so much was startling. The man’s hair, which did not begin until well behind his balding forehead, was long enough to reach the back of his knees and was beyond gray, beyond white, appearing almost purple, like the edges of a rotting potato. His mouth lacked lips, his eyes were without brows, and his cheeks were shriveled. He wore a
cascade of glittering purple, gold, and red—robes displayed with relish—flaunting it with dramatic sweeps of his arms as he walked using a tall staff. Brilliant blue eyes shifted restlessly around the room, never pausing for too long on any one person. His jaw, held taut in an openmouthed grin, showed a surprising full complement of teeth, his expression a silent laugh.

Behind him entered two equally shocking guards. They wore shimmering gold breastplates over top shirts of vertical red, purple, and yellow stripes with long cuffs and billowing sleeves. Matching pants plumed out, gathering just below the knee into long striped stockings. Across their chests, stretching from their shoulders, hung silver braids and tassels of honor. They wore gold helms with messenger wings that hid their faces. Each held unusual weapons, long halberds with ornately curved blades at both ends, which they held tight to their sides with one arm straight down and the other high across their chests.

The guards halted in perfect unison, snapping their heels in one audible
clack
. The old man continued forward, approaching Modina. He stopped before her, slamming the metal tip of his staff down on the stone floor.

“Forgive me, Your Eminence,” the old man announced in a loud voice, and followed with an elaborate bow, which allowed him the opportunity to further display the grandeur of his robes. “My apologies cannot begin to elevate the depth of my sadness at having failed to arrive at the appointed time, but alas, I was irrevocably detained. I do hope you can forgive a feeble old man.”

Modina stared at him, her expression blank. She said nothing.

The old man waited, shifting his weight, tilting his head from side to side.

Modina glanced at Nimbus.

“Patriarch Nilnev,” the chancellor addressed the old man. “If you will please take your seat.”

The Patriarch looked at Nimbus, then back to Modina. With a curious expression, he nodded, walked to the empty chair, clacking his staff with each step, and sat down.

“Patriarch Nilnev,” Breckton said. “Can you explain your interruption of King Armand’s comments?”

“I was quoting an ancient text: ‘
And lo the sylvan gods prey on Man. They that death does not visit and time does not mar. Firstborn fairy kings, undisputed lords, mankind cowers before thee.
’ ” He recited the words with reverence and paused before continuing, “The ancient writings speak clearly of the power of the elves. So much time has passed, so much dust covers the years, that man has forgotten the world as it was before the coming of our lord Novron. Before his sacred birth, the elves ruled all the land. Every fair place, every sunlit hill and green valley, lay under their dominion. They were firstborn, greatest of the inhabitants of Elan. We forgot because the miracle of Novron made such amnesia possible. Before his coming, the elves
were
invincible.”

“Forgive me, Your Holiness.” Sir Elgar spoke up, his voice like the growl of a bear. “But that’s a load of bull. Elves are as weak as women and dumber than cattle.”

“Have you crossed the Nidwalden, Sir Elgar? Have you seen a true member of the Erivan Empire? Or are you speaking of the
mir
?”

“What’s a
mir
?”

“A
mir—
or
kaz
in Calian—is one of those wretched, vile creatures that so often used to defile the streets of cities throughout Apeladorn. Those emaciated, loathsome perversions with pointed ears and slanted eyes who carry a muddied mix of human and elven blood are abominations.
Mirs
are remnants of a conquered people that have less in common
with elves than you do with a goldfish. Elf and human cannot coexist. They are mortal enemies by divine providence. The mixing of their blood in a single body has produced a contemptible walking insult to both Maribor and Ferrol, and the gods’ wrath has fallen upon them. You should not presume to look at a
mir
and guess at the nature of an elf.”

“Okay, I get the point. Still, I’ve never come across any creature that draws breath who is immune from the sharpened tip of a sword,” Elgar said.

This produced pounding of fists on the table and grunts of agreement from the other knights—all except Breckton.

“The ancient text tells us that prior to the coming of Novron, no elf was ever killed by a man. Moreover, due to their long life, no human ever saw an elven corpse. This gave rise to the belief that they were immortal gods. ‘
Soft of foot, loud as thunder, terrible as lightning, greater than the stars, they come, they come, they come to conquer.
’ ”

“So if they were so great, how did Novron stop them?” Elgar challenged.

“He was the son of a god,” the Patriarch replied simply. “And”—he paused briefly, his grin widening to display even more teeth—“he had help in the form of the Rhelacan.”

“The divine sword?” Sir Breckton asked skeptically.

The Patriarch shook his head. “It was created by the gods, but the Rhelacan is not a sword; it is the Trumpet of Ferrol, the Call of Nations, the
Syord duah Gylindora
that Novron used to defeat the Erivan Nation. Many make the same mistake. In the Old Speech the word
syord
means
horn
, but that bit of information was lost when some sloppy translator thought it meant
sword
. The name Rhelacan is merely Old Speech for
relic
or
artifact
. So the
Syord duah Gylindora
, or Horn of Gylindora, became the
sword that is a great relic
, or the Rhelacan—the weapon that Novron used against the elves.”

“How can this…
horn
… defeat an army?” Sir Breckton asked.

“It was made by the hand of their god, Ferrol, and holds dominion over them. It gave Novron the power to defeat the elves.”

“And where might this marvelous trumpet be?” Cornelius DeLur spoke up. “I only ask because in our present circumstances, such a delightful treasure could prove to be quite useful.”

“Herein lies the great question. The Rhelacan has been lost for centuries. No one knows what became of the Horn of Gylindora. The best accounts place it in the ancient capital of Percepliquis, just before the city vanished.”

“Vanished?” Cornelius asked, leaning forward as far as his immense girth would allow.

“Yes,” the Patriarch said. “All accounts from that time report that the city was there one day and gone the next. Percepliquis was consumed, lost, it is said, in a single day.” The Patriarch closed his eyes and spoke in a musical tone:

Novron’s home, seat of power

White roads, walls, roofs, and towers

Upon three hills, fair and tall

Gone forever, fall the wall.

Birthplace of our wondrous queen

Mounted flags of blue and green

Exquisite mansions, wondrous halls

Goodbye forever, fall the wall.

City of Percepliquis

Ever sought, forever missed

Pick and shovel, dig and haul

Search forever, fall the wall.

Gala halted, city’s doom

Spring warmth chilled with dust and gloom

Darkness sealed, blankets all

Death upon them, fall the wall.

Ancient stones upon the Lee

Dusts of memories gone we see

Once the center, once the all

Lost forever, fall the wall.

“I know that,” Hadrian blurted out, and regretted it the moment he did, as all eyes looked his way. “It’s just that I remember hearing that as a kid. Not the whole thing, just the last part. We used to sing it when we played a game called Fall-the-Wall. We didn’t know what it meant. We didn’t think it meant anything. Although some of the kids thought it had something to do with the ruins of Amberton Lee.”

“It does!” Arista broke in. “Amberton Lee is all that remains of the ancient capital of Percepliquis.”

Hadrian heard the reactions of disbelief around the table.

“How do
you
know this?” Sir Murthas asked inquisitorially. “Scholars and adventurers have searched for centuries and a wit—” He caught himself. “A
princess
just happens to know where it is? What proof do you have?”

“I had—” Arista began when the empress cut her off.

“Princess Arista has provided to me irrefutable proof that what she says is indeed true.” Modina glared at the knight.

Sir Murthas looked as if he might protest, but he closed his mouth in defeat.

“I believe the city is buried,” Arista went on. “I think Edmund Hall found a way in. If only we had his journal… but the Crown Tower is gone, along with everything in it.”

“Wait a minute,” Hadrian said. “Was it a beat-up brown leather notebook? About this big?” He gestured with his hands.

“Yes,” the Patriarch said.

Arista looked back and forth between them. “How do you know that?”

“I know it because I have lived in the Crown Tower,” the Patriarch said.

“And you?” Arista looked at Hadrian, who hesitated.

“Ha-ha! Of course, of course. I knew it!” Cosmos DeLur chuckled and clapped his hands together in single applause while smiling at Hadrian. “Such a wonderfully delightful rumor as that had to be true. That is an exquisite accomplishment.”

“You stole it?” Arista asked.

“Yes, he did,” the Patriarch declared.

“Actually,” Hadrian said, “Royce and I did, but we put it back the next night.”

“Riyria’s reputation is well founded,” Cosmos said.

“I did not wish to lose such an important treasure again, so since then, I’ve kept it with me at all times.” The Patriarch pulled out a small ruddy-brown leather book and lay it on the table. “This is the journal of Edmund Hall, the daily account of his descent into the ancient city of Percepliquis and what lies within.”

Everyone stared at the book for a moment in silence.

“The princess is correct,” the Patriarch continued. “The city lies beneath Amberton Lee and Hall did find a means in. He also found a great deal more than that. The journal speaks of a terrible shaft of darkness, an underground sea that must
be crossed, insidiously complex tunnels and tight crevices, bloodthirsty tribes of Ba Ran Ghazel, and a monster so terrible Hall could not fully describe it.”

“You’re saying the ancient capital is only three miles from Hintindar?” Hadrian asked.

“Yes,” Modina said, “and I plan on sending in a party to retrieve this horn.”

“Having read Hall’s journal,” the Patriarch said, “I believe you will need several skilled warriors, someone with historical knowledge of the city, someone with spelunking skills, and someone with sailing experience. I have already sent three teams on this very mission. Perhaps I—”

“I know,” the empress said. “They all failed. Princess Arista will organize my team.”

“If we could borrow Hall’s journal,” Arista said, “that would be of great assistance. I promise you’ll have it returned before the party sets out.”

The Patriarch’s smile seemed to waver, but he nodded. “Of course. It is the least I can do.”

Modina gestured toward Arista. “Your Highness, if you will…”

The princess stood up and faced the table. Before she could talk, however, Sir Elgar got to his feet. “Hold on,” he said. “Are you saying we aren’t even going to try and fight them? We’re just going to sit here and wait for some fairy-tale horn that might not even exist anymore? I say we form ranks, march north, and hit them before they hit us!”

“Your courage is commendable,” Sir Breckton said, “but in this instance foolish. We have no idea where our enemy is, the size or strength of their force, or their path of movement. Without even the faintest hint about our enemy we would be as a blind man fumbling around for a bear in the forest. And
all attempts to discover anything about our foe have met with failure. I have sent dozens of scouts and few have returned.”

“It seems wrong to just wait.”