The Chronicles of Lumineia: Book 02 - The Gathering (8 page)

The location
would be a puzzle because he needed a very specific place. It needed to be high
in the city, and very defensible. It also needed to have a good view, which
ruled out the palace and any other structure directly behind the great tree. A
thought flashed into his head and he almost smiled. The dining hall of the
House of Runya would be perfect. Its walls and ceiling were enchanted as if the
room rested at the top of the great tree, giving an unparallel view of the
valley below. Lariel would no doubt agree to its use, so he added speaking to
her onto his checklist and moved on.

For almost an
hour he planned and waited for Telerial. Finally a guard ushered him to a room
at the very top of the tower. The archmage sat behind an ornate desk in a chamber
filled with books and rich tapestries. Trees grew along the walls and other
detailed decorations adorned the room. Braon allowed the guildmaster a moment
and then spoke first.

“Telerial,” he
said. “I know you have kept me waiting to satisfy your sense of importance.”
The archmage’s eyes bulged at his blunt comment, but Braon continued before he
could respond. “But we do not have time for such trivial massaging of ego.” He
kept his tone controlled and respectful so as not to overly provoke the elf,
and only waited for him to sputter before he added, “I have a task for you, one
that is supremely challenging and will require all your skill with magic.”

“What do you .
. ., No, I didn’t . . . ?” he blustered and settled on, “What task could possibly
challenge my skills?”

Braon resisted
the impulse to grin. Without waiting for the pompous elf to gain steam or deal
with his first comment, he’d managed to diffuse his pride and suggest a
challenge to it as well. He had hoped he would accept the challenge first, and
by so doing, unconsciously accept his leadership.

“I need your
help to create a means to see the battlefield, and it needs to cover the entire
cliff, the city, and the Lake Road. It needs to be detailed and accurate, as
well as adaptable for when I need to examine a particular location with a
closer perspective. I look to you to suggest a means to accomplish this task.”
He inclined his head towards Telerial and the elf took the bait in an instant.

“You have come
to the right mage, my young friend.”

“
Commander
,”
Braon said and the elf stared at him, locking eyes. The young man could not
allow even an inch of indecision within his command structure, and now was the
time to reinforce the subtle hint he’d already placed. Braon didn’t blink and
didn’t back down.

After several tense
moments the archmage frowned. “
Commander
then,” he said with a sneer. “I
do believe something
might
be possible to help with the dilemma.”

“What do you
have in mind?” Braon asked, ignoring the attitude.

“We might be
able to combine light magic with plant and water magic. Plants can capture the
light and transfer the images along roots to you, similar to the ceiling in the
dining hall of the house of Runya.” Braon didn’t miss the flash of envy in his
eye. “The tricky part will be to transfer that image to water, which would take
on the shape of the image. I don’t think that has ever been done before and
will be very tricky.”

Braon smiled
for the first time. “I do believe that would be perfect. The dining hall of the
house of Runya will be the location of the map.”

“Why not here
or the house of Keserian?”

“No.” Braon
responded but gave no reason. “You have six weeks, archmage. And I believe if
you are going to grow the roots from both ends of the Giant’s Shelf it will
take most of that time. Make sure the map extends five miles back from the
cliff, includes the Lake Road, and can view the first three levels of Azertorn.
If possible, a couple of miles in front of the shelf would be helpful as well.”

“Is that all?”
Telerial asked, his brow pulling together.

“Unfortunately
no, I also need to be able to communicate with my generals. It will need to be fast
and accurate.”

Telerial shook
his head. “I have no idea how to solve that one, but I will get started on the
map for you.” He sniffed. “It will require my personal attention as well as
many of my magi.”

“Good.” Braon bobbed
his head. “This is vital to our success against such an adversary. Any magi you
are not using, please send to me. I will have other tasks for them.”

Telerial
agreed a little too readily, so Braon added, “The
billions
we will
defend against will require our utmost preparation. Please do not fail to
complete this, or the blood of nations will be on your hands. If you have any
questions, please refer them to the queen or to me.” He knew the mage didn't
like him, and loathed the idea of serving under him, but he hoped the reference
to the queen would help him behave.

The archmage
furrowed his brow but took the warning well. “I will get started today.”

Braon thanked
him and left, not wanting to overstay his welcome. As soon as he was outside he
took a deep breath. He’d known Telerial would be tough, but it had gone easier
than he'd expected. For some reason his mind pulled to Deiran, and he wondered
if the elf general had spoken to him. Either way, he was glad to have him at
least partially on board, and even solving one of his problems. The elf would
work with him for now—but he would be seeking any opportunity to usurp his
authority.

Blinking
against the afternoon sun, Braon turned towards his next stop. He had the
wheels in motion as well as he could for now, so one thing remained to do . . .
learn about the enemy.

Threading his
way through the city towards where Lariel had indicated, he came to the elven
archives. On the fourth tier of Azertorn, a plain structure stood out from the
greenery-enshrouded buildings around it. Entering through a stone archway, he
was greeted by single guard blocking the way.

“State your
business in the archives,” the elf said, obviously bored.

“Braon, to see
Sirfalas. Is he available?” the young man asked and the guard nodded.

“One moment,
please,” the guard said and departed down a corridor.

Within minutes
the wizened elf that had spoken to the high council appeared, trailing the
guard, who passed Braon to resume his earlier position without further comment.

Sirfalas
approached and nodded at the young man, “Commander, I wondered how long it
would be until you came. What can I do for you?”

Surprised by
the elder historian’s expectations, Braon asked, “Did you know I would be
coming?”

The old elf
smiled, crinkling the lines around his eyes. “Any commander the Oracle would
support would surely come here to learn more about the enemy he would face. I
would even say you are earlier than I had expected.”

Braon chuckled,
pleased with the historians response. “Let’s get started then. What can you
tell me about the enemy?”

Sirfalas
nodded and beckoned for him to follow, heading back down the corridor. "It
is unfortunate that we know little about Draeken or his army, but what we do know
will be useful to you.”

“What do you
mean?” Braon asked.

Sirfalas
coughed and had to clear his throat before he could answer, “We have no
description of Draeken or his generals’ tactics, but we do have a description
of the army. I suspect you will figure out their tactics from that.”

Braon shrugged
and nodded, conceding the point. “What else can you tell me?”

“Let’s start
at the beginning, shall we?” Sirfalas answered and led the young man into an
enormous cavern lined with shelves. Scrolls and parchments were organized and stacked
into every available space in shelves that towered to the ceiling.

Braon looked
around in wonder and squinted into the distance where he couldn’t see the back
wall. “I had no idea you had so many records.”

The ancient
historian chuckled until he coughed again. “This is one of three archives, but
it is the oldest. We will have to go to the back to find what we need.”

Braon followed
the old elf into a maze of bookshelves. After several minutes they reached the
back wall and Sirfalas turned to follow it until he came to a cracked archway
in the stone. Through the doorway they came to a small room, with a single
bookshelf on the wall and a desk on the opposite side.

“These are all
of the records that mention Draeken. I have collected them throughout my time
here.” He shook his head. “I thought I was just satisfying my curiosity about
what drove the elves to migrate, but now I know it was for you.”

“Wait,” Braon
said, raising his hand, “I thought no one knew who forced the elves west.”

Sirfalas
smiled a sad smile. “I believe it was Draeken ten thousand years ago, but when
I shared it with the high council they thought there was insufficient
evidence.”

 “Why don’t
you start at the beginning and tell me everything you know.”

Sirfalas
nodded and pointed to a wooden chair. “This might take a while. There is quite
a bit of material beyond the descriptions I sent with the messengers,” he
wheezed and pulled on a small rope hanging from the ceiling. A distant bell
chimed in response and he sat down across from Braon. “They will bring us food
and drink. The juice will combat the dust.” As if on cue the ancient elf
coughed again.

Waiting for
Sirfalas to finish, Braon said, “Tell me what you have learned.”

He nodded and
sighed. “Forgive me if I repeat things you already know. I tend to do that
these days.” He chuckled, gathering his thoughts. “In truth, there is little we
know of Draeken. Most believe that Draeken was a demigod of sorts, and many
called him the God of Chaos. The legend tells that his meddling into the races
of Lumineia caused too much havoc for Ero. Together, the gods imprisoned him in
our world, and that is when Skorn gave him a way out. ‘If chaos reigns in the
land of light, then your chains will be no more.’ I believe it was meant to be
an eternal mockery of what Draeken desired, but they had no idea what the God
of Chaos had been planning.”

The historian gave
a dry whispery laugh, and shook his head. "At least, that is the way the
myth tells it. With few facts, it is difficult to say otherwise, but I believe
that Draeken was just a man once. He may have even been an elf. The one thing
we know for sure is that he intended to slay every living soul in
Lumineia."

“He’d gathered
an army,” Braon said, and Sirfalas nodded soberly.

“It would be
more correct to say he created it, as the fiends are not natural to our world.
Comprised of four kinds, these dark creatures are each deadly. United, and with
so many, they are unstoppable.”

“What can you
tell me of the different types?” Braon asked.

Sirfalas stood
and searched for a scroll on the shelf. Finding it, he brought it to their table.
Unrolling it carefully, he pointed to the first drawing on the yellowing paper.
“This is a Quare, a man-sized fiend that grows a red mane. As you can see, its
fangs are like that of an animal, and it wields no weapon. Several accounts describe
the Quare as agile as panthers, and strong enough to tear men apart. They are
also the most abundant fiend, and comprise over two-thirds of the entire army.”

Sirfalas then
moved his finger to another sketch of a large creature that resembled a
scorpion. “This is a Skorpian, and it not unlike the poisonous creature—except
it is as large as a wagon. They can launch a portion of their tail like a spear,
making them the only type of fiend with a ranged attack. Once thrown, a spear
can regrow in minutes and is hard enough to penetrate rock. Their pincers are
also fast and as sharp as a sword.”

Braon nodded,
already working on defensive strategies. “What about this one?” He asked and
pointed at a creature that resembled a dog.

“Ah yes, a Siper.
They are enormous hounds, larger than lions if the recording is accurate, and can
be faster than a horse. There is one story of a score of Sipers that took down
a company of human cavalry.”

“Do weapons
not penetrate their skin?” Braon asked, peering at the picture and trying to
imagine the animal.

“Not easily,”
Sirfalas replied. “They have sharp scales made up of small triangular spikes,
which raise and change from black to crimson when they are angry. Their eyes
are said to be the color of the moon and they could see better at night.” He
leaned back and swept his hand at the wall of records. “There are several tales
of Sipers hunting men down and ripping them apart. Their howl even became known
as 'the call of death,' but few survived to describe it.”

Braon sighed,
wondering once again if he had the ability to do this. Drawing strength from
the Oracle's words, he focused on the last and largest drawing on the
parchment. “What is this?”

 “Those are Krakas,
the largest and most dangerous of the fiends. Standing at over ten feet tall,
they towered over the human and elf defenders. They are the captains of the
army, and for good reason. They are the most powerful. Their skin is black, but
if you look at the sketch, they have white bone armor. It is written that they
dragged a massive obsidian blade and early in the war the soldiers assumed the Krakas
couldn’t wield their weapons with any speed. They were wrong. Dragging the
blade is a deception, meant to cause their prey to think they are weaker than
they are, but their strength is unparalleled in almost any race.”

“What race
could be stronger than a Kraka?” Braon asked, incredulous.

Sirfalas
shrugged his thin shoulders. “A rock troll would be similar in size and
strength. The record tells of a single rock troll that fought with the elves. Aside
from him, the ancients only killed a few of the fiend captains, with legions of
men or large ballistae.”