Chapter 2: The Horned Abyss

Two new characters are introduced. They are being set up to go against Thogmar.

CHAPTER 2: THE HORNED ABYSS

 

Let it be noted here first that madness will descend upon the nations. None shall know of it until the end when all is lost. Nevertheless, it is known amongst the deathless that one has been granted a charge to gather the elite. Oh, the hardhearted hypocrites who read my words, take heed and be counted.

-An Annotation from The Theogony of the Seven, Book I, pg. i

 

1

       The blazing light of day withered under threat of darkness. Low rolling hills outside Shilladore buzzed with activity. Pavilion tarps and banners fluttered in the mindless staccato of wind. Groups of people wound up and around the hills like ants. Most were stragglers who did not have families and refused to go home, wagging kites anchored to their hands. The wind gradually died with the dusk, sending more revelers back to the confines of the capital.

The interval of Flower had ended the old cycle to bring in the interval of Pasture. The start of a new cycle would begin in the morning, and the populace had spent their day enjoying a customary duel between buel and bok. Two large runes were painted on each companion’s velum skin of the kites: buel, misfortune, and bok, blessings. Cheers rose when a kite with a bok glyph dipped and cut into the strings of the beul kite, severing its string. A collective jubilation would undulate outward like a wave as those in the festivities craned their necks to watch the beul kite disappear into the sky, along with all their bad luck for the coming cycle. It was the goal of both participants to see the kite of misfortune severed.

By this time, the crowds had thinned, and many were simply cutting the string with the bad luck glyph to ward off any negative auspices before they set out for their homes. The remaining good luck kites would simply be let go, still intact with their strings; thus, their good fortunes would remain for the coming year.

The first edges of the spiraling galaxy rose over the eastern horizon, adding a splash of color to the salmon sky. The Eye of the Night, as it was affectionately called by the populace, offered a colorful glow to the heavens every evening and chased the dark into dim sanctuaries.

        At the far end of the crowd, stood two solitary figures, enthralled in their own battle for blessings and misfortune. They were not separated from the others out of choice, but by common sense. A public gathering was no place for a Blade or his theurgist.

       The fresh night wind had picked up strength again. Pulling the slack on their strings, the two companions stood next to each other, intent upon their kites. The two kites bobbed and dipped in the wind, each armed with a tail lined with glass shards for severing the other's main control string. Under the first rising arm of the galaxy, the shards of glass tinkled, and the two skeletal bamboo kites bobbed under the weight in the soft glowing sky. The pale light glistened off the glass like tiny diamonds, their dimming resilience melting in with the panorama of stars.

       Though the custom was as old as Taurean itself, the two men participated in the buel-bok saum, the battle of misfortune and blessing, every New Cycle, as did all close friends and relatives throughout the continent. The riotous hullabaloo of the crowds had finally died down, so the companions could finally relax with the ritual of their own.

       The Blade concentrated on maneuvering his kite into his companion's. No sane person would ever associate with a Blade like Mandrake; most people considered him too dangerous, but Abithar was not the average person. He was a theurgist, the mortal manifestation of his god's wisdom and power.

       Abithar's flowing robes of dark brown notified all that the blessing of Meggidon rested upon him and the Blade. None could mistake the power and authority of such a man, as none could mistake the steel arm of a Blade. A Blade was deadly enough, but a Blade with the blessing of the gods was murder to the soul.

       Before the Blade's buel kite cut into the theurgist's, the other slipped the opposite direction, and then zipped back toward the Blade's, threatening to sever the misfortunes forever. However, the Blade jerked the string lightly, sending his kite rushing in a reverse pattern.

       "You'll not escape your misfortunes that easily, Thar," the large Blade said with a laugh.

       Mandrake never took this game seriously, though this was a battle of the coming cycle's outlook. Both wished to see the buel kite severed, but the Blade would have his fun first, to see his companion sweat. It was a game to Abithar as well, but the superstition of the event took most of the fun out of it. Abithar put way too much importance upon the event, as he put too much importance in everything.

       "We'll see who's laughing when the misfortunes hit," the theurgist said through gritted teeth, yanking on his kite string to make a diving attack. "I told you, you had too much glass on your line, but would you listen to me? No. You had to stick more glass to test fate. Well, you wait and see, Mandrake. You'll be living alone this cycle; that much I'll tell you. I don't want to be anywhere near you when the misfortune hits. Gotchya!"

       A big grin surfaced on his pinched face, and he maneuvered his kite over Mandrake's. Then he pulled it down into a dive.

       “Get ‘em, Theurgist!” Someone yelled from the distance.

        Mandrake only reacted with a laugh, then jumped forward to allow his kite's string to slacken, avoiding Abithar's dive that cupped around and shot back up.

       “S’bane of a Blade!” The same voice returned. Mandrake looked towards the source and noticed the pavilions had already been taken down and the crowds had dissipated. They were alone except for a few drunken stragglers. With his attention on the remaining few, Mandrake watched with mild amusement as they ran off in broken lines towards the capital. He could only chuckle at their backs. Sure, they were brave when his back was turned, but when he focused his attention on them, they would run like cowards. They all ran like cowards. He turned his attention back to his companion.

       "You forget, Thar. Misfortune follows both participants." Again more laughter, Mandrake was in a jolly mood. The fifth and last feast day, the Day of Reward, had just ended at dusk and the alcohol still flowed through him. The Day of Reward was by far the most gluttonous since the other four feast days were a preliminary to what was to come. The Blade would have skipped the other days, but Abithar had insisted on observing the feasts in honor of the gods. Thus, he attended them with open anticipation for the last day.

       The Day of Virtue was no more than preparing feasts tailored for the poor and needy when all shared their surplus in food and fortune with those that lacked them. The Blade followed it strictly out of respect for his god and not for his fellowmen. He had always felt he deserved a feast more than giving one. Besides, Meggidon owed it to them. After all, they were the ones who did their god’s dirty work since the all gods were forbidden to directly interact with mortals in any way.

        Mandrake stepped back to his huffing companion and pulled his kite up higher. The large smile on his face instantly melted when his kite flew in front of the glowing crescent of the approaching world. Though the drifting galaxy now filled the night sky with its splash of color, the unwarranted planet still shone brightly. The Blade shot a worried glance at his theurgist.

         "What sign do you take that to be?" he said, motioning up to the sliver of light beyond his kite. It shone through his velum and illuminated the rune "misfortune" in an unhallowed glow.

        "If the oracles are correct, then all is lost," Abithar said, ignoring the import of their kites’ struggle for the danger overhead.

        From under his bushy eyebrows, he fixed his deep-set, bullish eyes upon the phenomenon above. Abithar carried everyone's problems on his shoulders. It was his responsibility to bring the world to sense.

        His square jaw and dominant cheekbones accentuated his pursed lips, yet he was a soft, kind man; a man Mandrake would protect with his own life. Casting his gaze to the stars, the theurgist added with a sigh, "In all my life, I have never feared for the future until this sign appeared."

        "Then the end is near," Mandrake said with a disgruntled shake of his head.

        One of his braided ponytails flopped over his shoulder, contrasting against his blood red armor. He flipped it back over without any thought.

        "Aye, the worst is yet to come," Abithar said.

        With a shiver, Mandrake looked back up at the kite in the sky. He could never understand why a planet that had never existed in the sky before this cycle was now starting to manifest, but Abithar would figure it out. Everything his friend had spoken of started to worry him, so he said, "I concede."

        He let loose his grip on the kite string and watched as the wind took it and the misfortune away in a frenzy of circles.

        This time Abithar laughed. "You're not getting superstitious on me, are you, friend?"

        Mandrake grunted with another chilly glance at the crescent. He could still remember the second feast day with a shudder. The Day of Genius, where all held a feast in honor of their ancestors, and since Mandrake never knew of his own or if his parents were alive or dead, he dreaded this day the most.

         Superstitious he was not, but he may have carried his unbelief too far by not respecting his ancestors on such a day. No, today was not the time to play with misfortune.

        "Because if you are," Abithar continued, "I may be out of a job."

        "You're always welcome at my side, Thar. You know that. I couldn't be who I am without you."

        Mandrake would kill any man, woman, or child who would come between him and his friendship with the theurgist. He had already foolishly sacrificed a friend long ago; a lesson he did not need repeated.  

        Now life was too violent and lonely not to have a friend since he had no choice in his lifestyle. He had to either murder or starve; there was no other way a Blade could earn money with a left arm crafted out of sorcerous steel that marked him as one of the Hierophant's death squad.

        Abithar started to let the kite string slip out of his hands when something snagged it.

        "What is it?" the Blade asked.

        "It's your kite, Mandrake. Its string's caught onto mine."

        Mandrake strained his eyes in the dim light. His heart jumped at what he witnessed. The faint glow of his "misfortune" kite bobbed in the wind, choking the direction out of Abithar's "blessing" kite, which spun out of control. His wayward kite had total freedom to rip and tear at Abithar's kite still anchored in his hand, severing it and sending their new cycle blessing away forever.

        "Let go of the string," Mandrake yelled. "Let it go, now!"

        Words spoken too late; the string in Abithar's hand drew slack as his string slumped to the ground. Mandrake looked up; their severed "blessings" spiraled and plunged into the darkness, and their misfortunes victoriously flirted out of sight.

2

         Both men stood stunned.

         "Never play with fate," Abithar said, shaking his head. "Why this cycle?! Of all cycles why did we have to do it this cycle?"

        "Thar! You were the one who introduced it to me, remember? I wanted nothing to do with such a childish game."

         Suddenly rounding on the Blade, Abithar spoke, shaking his hands with every word. "But why didn't you insist on sitting in a tavern getting drunk like you do every cycle? I probably would have listened."

        "But you never listen to what I have to say."

        That quieted the theurgist. He rubbed his eyes with a sigh. "If only there wasn't an Ashtoth."

        Raising his eyebrows with peaked interest, Mandrake added, "The Oracle of Ashtoth, you mean?"

        "Aye, the oracles. I never could understand the extent of their meanings until these past few nights. It's why I'm all edges tonight."

        The Blade understood his friend. During the third feast, the Feast of Reason, Abithar had gorged on the oracles of Ashtoth. The Feast of Reason was a banquet but not of food. They were to fast for an entire day to feast their minds upon the knowledge of the Ancients and the gods.

       Mandrake had caught up on reviewing some of the techniques associated with the armen arcana, his own art of the sword. He had learned nothing new the entire day, but what the theurgist may have learned brought goose flesh up his neck. A theurgist's knowledge was as deadly as the sword of a Blade.

      Mandrake shivered in the cold night air and instinctually rubbed his left hand of steel up and down his right arm. The cold steel only chilled him more. He could not wait to leave these hills for the warmth of the capital.

      "No matter how long I live with this infernal contraption," Mandrake said, "I'll never get used to the deadly coldness of it." Dropping the scratched and nicked steel arm to his side, the arm that had saved his life from countless mortal blows, Mandrake motioned his friend with his good right hand. "Come. Tell me more of these oracles as we walk. The sooner we are indoors, the better. This night is getting more and more to my disliking."

       Picking up his pace to keep up with the taller Blade, Abithar continued. "There isn't much more to tell, really. Nothing but mystery shrouds the oracles. You could guess as well as I the meaning of them. But there is one oracle that comes to mind. It hints of an age when madness will consume the world.”

      “Oh, that could be any age,” Mandrake said.

       Abithar huffed with polite humor. “Aye, but the oracle is clear.”

      “Are they ever clear?”

      “Aye, dear friend. The oracle notes that this age of madness will be preceded by a war where ‘the seven shall be diminished to one under the horned abyss.’”

       "Seven?” Mandrake furled his brow, confused. “The seven gods, you mean?"

       "Aye, friend. There is much symbolism in the oracles." They continued to walk down through the rolling hills toward Shilladore. "Look at the capital. Where does it sit?"

       He gazed over in the distance at the lone bluff of Castle Mount that cradled the capital city of Shilladore in its shallow bowl. In the haze of the galaxy's light, night stewards busied themselves lighting the city that soon sparkled as scattered jewels. Lights twinkled around the six surrounding pinnacles of the mount like strings of diamonds and flowed over the brim as they trailed down the gradient slope. He always knew the lonely mountain that stuck far out of the range of the Foghorn Mountains was too strange for a natural accident. There was purpose in its creation, as the buildings and streets circumventing the peaks had purpose to the inhabitants.

       "We can see signs of the six gods everywhere, but I don’t understand the seventh number."

       "Sure. We have six gods vying for power, with the seventh, the god that was not, seeking to undo the balance of this world.”

      “Ah, I forgot about the Destroyer, the gods’ envious brother.”

       “But don’t forget the eighth entity in all this strife?"

       "What eighth?" Mandrake said, slowing his pace. "You never mentioned an eighth!"

       A thin smile cracked the theurgist's lips, the way it always did when he had doom to pronounce upon his enemies.

       "I don't like where this is going,” Mandrake continued. “Let's just drop it, Thar."

       "You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

       Mandrake snorted and then looked down on his friend. "Do I ever?"

       Abithar nodded his head toward the northwest, and the Blade followed his motion. His gaze settled on twinkling lights hanging in the mountains, the ominous Tower of Waylor, the real strength of the capital. A bright beacon twinkled in the upper most parapets. He let out a sigh in the cool night air, and steam streamed out of his mouth. How he hated that cursed tower; too many bad memories slumbered there.

       "The Order of Waylor adds an eighth element to the factor," the theurgist said. "An element that can only bring chaos to the fragile balance the gods hold until the Final Theomachy. The oracles speak of their meddling, but not even the Oracle of Ashtoth can foresee their doom."

        With a snarl Mandrake turned back to the city and never looked back. If he ever saw the inside of that tower again, it would mean he was dead. He may be the sorcerers' puppet from time to time, but he would never again call them his masters. He had served his time in the tower, and he thanked Meggidon for assigning him to protect Abithar. The lamplights of the city beckoned him even more now, blinking temptingly in rich splendor that overwhelmed even the great expanse of stars in the heavens.

       Growing impatient to enter its comfort, he picked up his pace again. He had often lovingly referred to the capital, as many others did, as the Gates of the Supernal, the pride of Meggidon, the god of Taurean. Thoughts of a warm fire to melt the chill of the cool night air and a mug of arrack caused Mandrake to walk even faster and think harder about the future. Behind him, Abithar was running to keep up.

       The theurgist trotted into his field of vision."But what of our doom?" the Blade asked "Can you divine who will win the Final Theomachy?"

       "Aye, think about it," Abithar wheezed over the exertion of the quickened pace. "The oracles speak of the great gathering where six of the gods shall bow down to the one victorious god in the Final Theomachy."

       "It will be our god, of course!" Mandrake said, and a world of possibilities opened up before him. Abithar always had a way of making the world seem right.

       "If we win."

       "Are we not the mightiest nation in all of Regent? Do we not have the Blades and Reds all gathered here as well? Is not Meggidon the Chosen One?"

       "Except that our victory, if we are victorious, will be short-lived."

       "How can you be such a pessimist, Thar?" Mandrake said with a shocked glance over his shoulder. He slowed down a pace, allowing Abithar to catch up with him again. "Surely you believe Meggidon when he says that all will be crushed under our might."

       "Aye, but the oracle predicts an age of madness to settle over the land after we have won. You forget the Order of Waylor too quickly. They are what trouble me more than any victory we can achieve."

       "But," Mandrake said, resuming his heartened pace, "it can't happen until the sky sprouts horns." He snorted a laugh before continuing, "Now tell me, friend, how long do you think it will take the sky to do that?"

       "I'm afraid it already has," Abithar added. His face grew haggard with worry.

Mandrake stopped; the warmth of the city now forgotten. He turned to his companion, furrowing his brow, not understanding. Abithar silently answered the Blade's questioning look by shooting his gaze heavenward where the remnants of the crescent world dimmed in the glow of the galaxy roaming across the heavens. A settling luminescence washed the darkened earth.

         Mandrake's confusion changed to comprehension and then to horror. He realized that madness was coming with the approaching world. Misfortune would surely come with the New Cycle.

Author's Note

I am looking for pacing and how the characters interact with each other. Are they interesting people?