TWENTY-FIVE
ARKADIES VENN STOOD alone upon the heights of the Korda. The great amphitheater stretched out below him, a vastness so dark it was impossible to see the furthermost reaches. Even greater was the emptiness: a roaring silence that drew ever tighter with each passing moment.
Alone, yet not alone. A few paces to his right sat the frail, fleshless form of a Zurd hunched over in dreamsleep, wandering the rainbow-colored timelessness of the Eld. About his head was a latticework of telfiber, linking him and his brothers to the vast holo-net. The faintest tint of rose tinged his pale lips, a clear sign he had recently fed. Arkadies would awaken him at the right time so he might witness and transmit the beginning: the blast of the Great Horn.
Far out to sea on the visible curve of the eastern rim, the sun’s first touch was golden and glowing, still pale and feeble yet brightening even as he watched. The dawning of the Great Moot is here, at last.
Beside him, the Great Horn sat in its sling, massive and motionless, yet beckoning. From the tapered mouthpiece to the massive upsurge of the belled mouth, it stretched out twenty meters. It had begun as a living tree—one plucked from the side of the Sacred Mount a full cycle before the first of the Great Moots. Robert the Piper, the greatest living technik, had then painstakingly carved and hollowed it. As a work of art, it was unsurpassed in the Pentarchy. Gold and precious gems embossed its mouth and belled end. The tanned skin and plush coat of a shagtusk covered the long stem.
Only one man could blow the Great Horn. Only one man possessed the size and power needed to match the dimension of the Horn itself. Only Arkadies Venn, the Dipsoman. It was a duty he had performed with relish and pride from the very inception of the event, yet now he hesitated. For the first time in his long life, he tasted the horrible flavor of fear. He was about to set in motion the greatest happening of a millennium, one that could not be undone. And it would not be joyous. Of that, he was certain.
The Pat’Riark and the Magi were naming it the cycle of woe. Their actions had followed this belief, shocking the entire Pentarchy. Should he refuse his duty, even as Fortunatus had done?
For the first time since the inception of the Great Moot, the Pat’Riark of Swords would not lead the procession around the giant circle of the amphitheater. The D’ia Mor, the first of the Swordkind, would now perform this duty. Accompanying them would be Zel, the current Riark. Many now called this a fitting change, though in Arkadies’ mind it placed only shadow.
He knew he could not and would not shirk his duty. It would neither stop nor change what must be. The Aether would flow and the Fates would meander along their set course despite the vagaries of men.
Even now he could hear the momentous surge of awakening. A horde of human and alien countenance would descend upon the Korda fast upon the heels of the coming light. Then would the contests of the sword begin. The Great Moot—the last of the millennium.
A deep shuddering shook his giant shoulders as he looked up into a sky for once clear of mist. The known stars still twinkled small, though they were fading in the East. Among them were other lights uniformly ordered and precise in their placement: the great fleets of the pentarchial realms massed in their entirety for the greatest of all events. The mighty Rudd Fortresses of Power; the massive Seth-Condors of the Grimman-Seth; the small yet virtually invincible Vipers of the D’ia Mor; and the powerful destroyers, frigates, and battleships of Faerwyn-Joss and Earth. And upon them were the Swordkind, the Adepts in their total number; yet even now they remained less than a thousand strong. So few, yet so vitally important to the workings of the empire.
How would the coming cycle affect them? And how would it affect Arkadies, this thing he was about to do? What would be the cost to the greatest creations of his fertile imagination—Ravel and the Guild?
He shook his head. There were too many questions holding too few answers.
He knew he was often a source of amusement to his friends, and ridicule to his detractors. He and his great appetites—the very reason for his nicknaming: the Dipsoman. He did not care about the opinions of the latter, for he knew he had the respect of the former. For him it was enough. Let events flow around him as they would, change him as they willed. He had no wish to change himself.
He leaned over the Zurd, gently shaking his frail shoulder. The creature startled into wakefulness. Arkadies moved to the Horn, clasping it in his enormous hands and pulling it to his mouth. He could delay no longer. He filled his lungs to their utmost and expelled his breath in a mighty surge.
A single note rang out, low and clear and deafening in its clamor. The sound would echo throughout the Pentarchy, and perhaps alter its shape forever.
***
The Nonce stood in the shadow of a solitary cedar, listening to the last ripple of the Great Horn’s dying cry. The summit of the Korda was now below him. He had risen well before the culinars had begun their toiling, and his quickened steps had carried him far up the slopes of the Sacred Mountain. There beneath a giant tree the sun’s first rays had caught him and he had stopped.
His smile was wicked. This choice of meeting place was a jest even the Shadow might appreciate in its murky way.
The One-who-was-yet-three stilled his thoughts. For the first time in long cycles he allowed his brother minds to step beyond the confines of their prison: the Kern, no longer a true Trine, even though they had assimilated Zel. As he felt the union with his other selves, the sudden imbuing of pleasure was ecstasy. Such was the joining, inexplicable even to his kind.
We are one.
The thought echoed endlessly, a triangle within a circle, unbound by it yet joined in a separate yet flawless unity of thought.
He…they, immediately felt the approach of the Shadow akin to the focused center of a swirling maelstrom. There was a sudden surge of wonder and awe at the increase in intensity, the overwhelming sensation of its power and purity. The Darkness-without-light. Its touch was beyond the expression of words; almost beyond thought itself.
‘Lord.’
‘Yes, my faithful one. How well have you served me?’
‘Lord, we believe the time is ripe. The empire is fast approaching chaos.’
‘Yes…I feel it. The downward momentum has quickened. You shall use the birdmen to hasten it, yet there must be enough time to allow my substance full entry to this realm. My enemy must not yet learn of my intention until it is too late. Even He cannot focus in all realms at once. Soon, even He cannot halt my entry into this plane.’
‘Lord, the Mondragon youth is fast passing beyond our control. His mind bends as the Dark rises within him. The fool believes only in the Kryll. His greed blinds him to our control…and even to your existence.’
‘No matter. He will serve his purpose, setting House against House.’
The Nonce felt a sudden and overwhelming sensation of bloated lust and euphoria.
‘I have felt and tasted the fabric of this plane—sweet and succulent. I hunger for it! You must not fail me!’
The voice thundered at them, shaking them to their core. Moments passed before they could again communicate.
‘Lord…we have laid our plans well. We offered them the Metals and they accepted like trusting children. Yet it was not perfect. We did not expect the intervention of the water-breathers…’
‘Yes, beware of them. We cannot deceive them like the humans. Their knowledge is old and tested, and they are aware of both my enemy and me. They cannot stand alone, but others have passed beyond the veil who might return. We cannot allow it.
‘Something in this plane troubles me. Though my substance here is yet weak, I have sensed a presence that flickers and fades. It is strongest here. I have felt it before, linked with my ancient enemy.’
‘The stranger…’
‘You must test him. Find a way. Perhaps the youth may yet serve a further purpose.’
‘And the Magi priests?’
‘They are fools. They serve the Light without fully comprehending what it is. They have no power. You shall crush them! Their vaunted Tower shall crumble into dust. As will the Swordkind, even as they battle one against the other. Chaos must spread, for that is the key to my entry and my greatest weapon. You shall not fail me!’
Once again the trio of minds cowered before the thunderous command.
‘Lord, we shall not!’
‘Serve me well and your reward shall be to join with me. You have already tasted the power of the joining, you who are One-yet-three. Imagine a power beyond mortal ken…an endless massing of limitless beings, united in the darkness of the void. This wonder you shall know upon the eve of victory!’
Grudgingly it seemed to them, the Shadow receded. Within the Nonce there was also a transformation. The link crumbled, and his brothers drew apart until he was once more a singularity masked to all.
He retraced his steps down the slope to take his unseen place among the world of men.
***
They came from every nook and cranny, from every far-flung outpost of the Pentarchy: the rich and famous, the powerful and highborn, the rulers and shakers of destiny’s dice. They came in their brilliant colors and their festive coats, alone or accompanied; singularities and dualities—even Trines. They took their places behind the magnificent walls of the Korda, sat in seats bought with sums that could ransom kings. It was a multitude numbering a million souls, yet the custodians counted each seat with the utmost care.
And when the grand space filled, still they gathered on the outskirts. They came in endless droves until it seemed the island itself might be in danger of sinking. The mystique of the Great Moot was a magnet, and its pull never so greatly felt as when standing next to the Korda.
At last there was a final counting, a limiting as if by some unknown accord. The air grew quiet. There was not even the ripple of breath.
The trumpets blared. The Swordkind marched onto the field, two thousand strong and led by Zel, the son of the primus. The current Riark of Swords was tall and proud and straining in his eagerness. And at his side walked the D’ia Mor. Nine Trines only, and never so dark and forbidding, never so silent and powerful as they looked now: the first of the Swordkind.
In the front rank of the Gardai strode the Lord Marshal and his commanders, receding in echelon to the lowest Initiate. Martial music lifted their steps high. The solid thump of their booted feet was audible even over the screaming of the multitude.
Around the great circle they marched, and the din from straining throats swelled until the very walls themselves were in danger of bursting. This was the flower of the empire, the Swordkind, blessed by the Gift to bear the Twin Metals. These were her protectors, her foremost knights, the sworn keepers of the Code. Even those who did not possess the Gift cried out with a fervor fueled by hope: that their sons as yet unborn might one turn walk tall and proud upon the field in company with these men of majesty.
At last, they completed the circuit. For a time the roar lingered, swelling and receding like waves upon a placid shore. The Gardai stood silent and waiting. The roar dropped to a murmur and the hush returned.
Would he come? The most revered of all the Swordkind? It was blasphemy to doubt. Fortunatus must and would come.
The robed mass of Swordkind waited silent and unmoving. The moments passed. The crowd too waited breathlessly, not daring to utter the slightest noise for fear they might somehow alter the outcome.
Zel took a single step forward, lifting his eyes to the high arch. His glance and stance were both a question and a demand.
Still, there was no answer from the primus.
Zel’s face contorted into ugliness as the muscles of his face bunched as his teeth clenched. His hands opened and closed upon his sword in nervous agitation. When it seemed he would speak, a fanfare of trumpets once again screamed a warning. The mass of people leapt to their feet as one, and their voices rose in a single shout.
The Pat’Riark strode onto the field, his long staff held easily in his hand. On his left walked Lady Niobe and Deemus. On his right was Shaan Sid, now a pentarch of the empire. Close behind, spreading into the wings of a ‘V’ came the Ten: the Magi. Eleven now, it suddenly appeared. At the head of the ‘V’ and taller than any other was the newest Adept of the Pentarchy. But whether an Adept of the Magi or the Swordkind none could safely say. Though he carried both sword and shields, he wore the robe of the Magi. Like the Pat’Riark, twin bands of black now adorned the front. And upon his breast rode a tiny flame of bluish-white, glittering as though alive.
Inside the ‘V’ walked the wenlords, Thorgrim, Shaka, and Roland. A fourth slender Adept of medium height wore the emblem of a commander of the Gardai. All recognized him as Ulric Germanicus, Lord Warden of Gehenna. Why he walked in this company rather than with his fellows the wildly cheering crowd did not question.
Their march being slower took longer, yet they reached the limit of the circle and drew up behind the Gardai. Still, they remained noticeably apart. The people then saw the primus standing atop the arch, looking minuscule at such an impressive height.
His holo appeared suddenly in the center of the field, a giant form easily recognized by all. He wore his most stately robes of office, and about his head was a golden circlet shaped like a garland wreath. His voice rippled throughout the arena, swelling with command.
“Citizens of the Pentarchy. I greet you one and all! The turn you have long awaited has at last arrived. At this very moment, we celebrate the one-thousandth cycle of post-Cloister, and the one hundred and thirty-fifth occasion of the Great Moot. Let us remember the past and look ahead to the future with gladdened hearts. Upon the final moment of the fifth turn, the Great Horn shall ring out once again, signaling the end of the Great Moot and the beginning of a new millennium. I guarantee this will be a time of prosperity greater than any yet seen. So let us now enjoy the fruits of our labors and bear witness to the coming spectacle—the greatest of the empire. On the morrow shall begin the contests of the Swordkind. We have posted the lists, though any Senior Adept may challenge. As ever, these are the most awaited. Let us now raise our voices in salute to the guardians of the empire…the Swordkind!”
Once more a joyous clamoring began, a cacophony of voices and instruments that wailed and screamed and beat an incessant tattoo. Many in their excitement strove to jump onto the field, yet the thick cordon of myrmidon encircling the perimeter prevented them: the famous Legion of Ravel known as the Old Guard. This duty was an honored tribute to their efficacy.
The entertainment began, magnificent and multi-faceted. There was something for everyone, for all realms had contributed to the spectacle and vied in their efforts to outdo each other.
The Grimman-Seth amazed the entire crowd with their extraordinary display. A lone youth stood motionless atop the highest balcony, cloaked in the colors of the High Halcyon and bathed in the glow of countless lights. To the astonishment of the assembly, he suddenly leapt outward—a move that would take him to his death far below.
There came a collective gasp, an outpouring from a million throats as his wings spread in all their glory—a brilliant sunburst of blended red, orange, and gold, set against a backdrop of black. He soared over the heads of the gaping onlookers, his shimmering colors ever changing as they caught the filtered sun of the dome.
He settled adroitly amidst a group of warlords, among them Vull and Broodmaster Mendas Jaff. They surrounded him with tight military precision, bowing low to the great assembly. After a shocked silence, the crowd roared their approval. Yet many Adepts muttered to themselves.
Every corner of the realm had sent representatives in some fashion, yet strangely, though their mighty ships were visible in the waters around the isle of Faer-Alon and orbiting above Earth, the Rudd numbered only a handful. They offered no visible commitment to the festivities, apart from watching garbed in their Sleefs.
The greatest culinars of Ravel—arguably the greatest in the empire—had set stalls both within and without the great walls. The enticing smells soon had a steady stream of eager buyers tracing their way through the myriad paths linking the tiers of seats. The chutes toiled endlessly.
The sun ambled its way across a sky bereft of clouds, and still the festivities continued. Darkness arrived and went unnoticed. The Korda’s glow rivaled the sun.
The Adepts who would compete had long since vanished, retiring to their places of seclusion to await the coming dawn. The sun crept through its arc unseen until glimmering fingers of light stretched across the water to paint the eastern shores of Faer-Alon with a gentle blush of color.
The dawn followed fast, though it arrived beneath leaden skies. Towering clouds floated high, threatening rain at least. The air had a chill bite that bespoke a last remnant of winter. Those who by good fortune or placement had seen all the Great Moots glanced up and shook their heads.
It augured ill.