Valorian

2

The first thing Valorian grew aware of was a vast, unutterable silence. It pressed against his senses with a strange heaviness as empty and still as death. Gone were the sounds of the wind and rain, of wet leather creaking, and the clop of Hunnul’s hooves on stone. There was simply nothing.

Ever so slowly Valorian raised his head and opened his eyes. The world he had known was still there, but it seemed to be fading into a pale, slightly luminous light, like a dream that ends before waking. Valorian was shocked to realize that he was standing upright, yet he couldn’t feel anything. He had no weight on his legs, or soggy clothing on his cold skin, or even a headache from his fall.

All at once the revelation hit him as hard as the lightning. With a cry, he whirled around and saw his body lying twisted and motionless beside the still form of his horse. A wisp of smoke rose from his broken helmet.

There was a feeling in Valorian’s mind like the shattering of glass that shook him to the depths of his soul. Fury filled him, and he bellowed with all his might, “No! This cannot be!” His voice sounded strange in the unearthly stillness, yet it was a relief to hear any noise. He shouted again just to break up the frightening silence.

Something moved close by, causing him to turn again, and he came face-to-face with Hunnul. The black stallion, apparently unmarked by the drastic change that had befallen them, nickered nervously and crowded close to his master. The saddle, or the image of the saddle, with all of his gear, was still cinched to Hunnul’s back.

Valorian’s anger receded a little in the comfort of the stallion’s presence. He reached out to touch Hunnul, and his fingers felt the warm, black hide—until he pushed a little harder and his hand went right through the horse.

Frightened and furious again, Valorian shook his fist at the sky and shouted. “We’re dead! All you holy gods, is this how you answer a prayer? Why now? Why us?”

The clansman abruptly paused. A faint sound intruded into the silence, a sound like distant thunder. Gradually it grew louder, drawing closer from a distance that had no direction.

Valorian drew a harsh breath. “The Harbingers.” He should have remembered they would come. They were the riders of Nebiros’s steeds and the messengers of Sorh, the god of the dead, who came to escort every soul that passed beyond the mortal world. They took the newly deceased to the realm of the dead to face the judgment of Lord Sorh.

“Not this time,” Valorian cried. “I won’t go. I can’t, Hunnul. I won’t leave my wife and family to the Tarns and starvation. Not while I can bring the hope of escape.” Even as he spoke, the thundering noise became audible as hoof beats.

From out of the glimmering light where the mountain range had vanished came four white riders on pale steeds galloping toward him with the speed of diving eagles.

The hunter looked around angrily for a weapon or some means of holding off the Harbingers. He spotted his sword lying several paces away from his dead body, and in more hope than knowledge, he lunged for it. His hand closed around the hilt and hefted it. It felt real enough to him.

Forged of braided iron and decorated with silver, the weapon had been burned black and its tip warped by the power of the lightning. At that moment, Valorian didn’t care. The hilt still fit comfortably into his grip, and the weapon sang through the air as he swung it in a wide arc.

The clansman shouted with relief, sprang to his horse, and brandished his weapon at the oncoming steeds. “Sorh honors me by sending four,” he shouted to Hunnul, “but they will have to return without me.”

Hunnul pranced sideways, infected by his master’s agitation. Together they watched the four immortal escorts come galloping out of the sky to take them to the realm of Sorh. As the Harbingers drew closer, Valorian could see they were male in appearance, dressed in battle gear that shone with an icy light, and apparently unarmed. He studied them curiously. No living person knew what the Harbingers looked like, for very, very few souls died and returned to life. Valorian had never personally known a man or woman who had come back from death. Nevertheless, it was said that others had done it, and their success gave him hope. If he could just hold off the shining riders, they might let him go.

The four riders were almost upon him when he kicked Hunnul and shouted the Clan war cry. The stallion lunged forward into the midst of the white horses, squealing and snapping like a maddened creature. Valorian, his expression carved in adamant fury, swung his sword left and right at the riders. His weapon passed through two Harbingers and met nothing but air. Yet his attack seemed to surprise them.

They broke away from him and gathered at a distance to watch him. Their faces—if they had any—were invisible behind the visors of their helmets. Their postures were alert yet relaxed. They didn’t seem to be particularly angered by Valorian’s attack, only cautious. Most souls did not object so vigorously.

In a flash of worry and irritation, Valorian realized that they didn’t have to fight or subdue him. They could simply outwait him. The Harbingers had all eternity.

Valorian noticed something else, too. The land around him was almost gone. The mountains and the ridge had faded out of sight, leaving only the small patch of stone and earth where their two bodies lay. Around him was only the gentle light. Alarmed, Valorian kneed Hunnul back to stand by the bodies. He knew instinctively that if they left their mortal shells, they would lose their only chance of returning to the living world.

“Valorian!” The clansman started violently at the sound of his name.

“Sorh has called for you.” It was one of the Harbingers. His voice was low, masculine, compelling. Valorian felt a strong desire to obey his command. He forced it down with all his might.

“Not this time!” he shouted. “There is too much left for me to do.”

“What you have left undone shall have to be done by others. Your time is over.”

“No!”

“You must come, Valorian.” The Harbingers’ steeds took a step toward him.

All at once and without any warning, a great wind blew up around Valorian and the death riders. Like a living creature, it howled and roared and pushed between the startled clansman and his escorts.

Out of the raging wind, Valorian thought he heard a voice say, “Tell Sorh he will have to wait.”

Suddenly the wind swooped up Hunnul and Valorian and carried them with giant, unseen hands up and away from the small patch of mortal earth. The man was too stunned to protest. The powerful wind had no adverse physical effect on his soul, but it left him mentally breathless as it bore him with incredible speed into the glowing, unfamiliar boundaries of the realm of the dead. The world of mortality and the Harbingers were left behind.

Beneath him, the stallion tried to neigh. Hunnul was terrified, but he couldn’t move a muscle in the grip of the roaring, rushing wind.

Gradually the wind began to ease. Its force gently dissipated; its grand roar quieted until the strength of its passing was nothing more than a breeze. Ever so carefully the unseen hands of the wind set Valorian and Hunnul down, unharmed, and whisked off in a gust that sounded like laughter.

Both man and horse let out their breath in a great gust of relief. Hunnul stamped his hoof and snorted, as if to say, “Well!”

“Great gods of all,” the clansman exclaimed, staring around. “What was that all about?”

There was no immediate answer. He and Hunnul were standing on what looked like a vast, featureless plain of gray stone—granite from the look of it, the substance of mountains unborn. The sky above them, if that’s what it was, was a pale shade of gray and equally as empty. There was nothing else as far as they could see.

Valorian noticed he was still holding his sword. He hefted it once, then slowly slid it back into the sheepskin scabbard at his side. He had a feeling that no weapon would avail him here on this strange plain of stone. Something or someone of great power had brought him here with deliberate intent. He could only wait to see what would happen now. Swinging his leg over Hunnul’s mane, the clansman slid off the horse and came to stand by the animal’s head.

Together they looked at the stone around them.

“Now what?” Valorian murmured, nonplussed.

Hunnul nickered. The big stallion dipped his nose toward something on the ground in front of his hooves.

Valorian looked once and bent over for a second look. A tiny green plant had somehow taken tenuous root in the stone. As the man watched, the plant grew larger, spreading its tiny roots wider and deeper into the rock. The granite began to crack beneath the force of the roots. Tiny leaves popped out of the stem, opened, and spread wider. Tendrils curled toward the sky. Still deeper went the roots into the hard rock, but now Valorian could see the masses of fragile, hair like roots were crumbling the granite into sand. He gasped in surprise and stepped back. Excitement, wonder, and dread crowded into him until he was shaking with emotion.

Swiftly the plant grew taller, without water, earth, or real sunlight. It stretched its stems and leaves up toward the sky in joyous, quivering life and suddenly burst into brilliant bloom. The flowers were of every hue imaginable, glistening bright with morning dew and filled with a delicate unearthly fragrance that was sweet and alluring.

Valorian’s mouth dropped open and he fell to his knees. “The flower that shatters the stone,” he breathed. The power of life. The power of the goddess Amara.

As the truth clarified in his mind, the plant began to shimmer with a pearlescent glow. Its stem, leaves, and flowers wavered and shifted before the man’s eyes into the shape of a woman.

She was a glorious woman to Valorian’s mind: tall and fair, with strong limbs, wide hips, and a noble figure. Her long, heavy mane of hair hung to her waist like a swirling cloak of pale spring green. Her eyes were as brown and deep as the earth. She wore a gown that belied description of its color, for it shifted in rainbow hues with every move of its wearer and clung to her body from her neck to her feet like gossamer webs of silk.

Valorian bowed low before her.

Amara, the goddess of life and birth, of the rejuvenation of spring and the grace of fertility, the beloved mother of all to the clanspeople, stepped forward and raised the hunter to his feet.

He looked into her face with awe and felt her love for him surround him with comfort and warmth. His anger and fear fell away in the joy of her presence.

“Amara,” he whispered.

A smile lit her face, and Valorian wondered at how ageless she was. Her eyes were as ancient as the bones of the mountains, but her cheeks and her smile glowed with the youth of dawn.

“Please, my son, walk with me awhile,” the goddess said to Valorian. Then she turned to the horse. “Hunnul, you must come, too, for this concerns both of you.” With one hand on Valorian’s arm and the other on the stallion’s shoulder, the goddess walked slowly across the empty plain of stone.

She said nothing at first to her two companions, only strode majestically by their sides. Valorian respected her silence, even though a thousand questions burned in his mind.

They walked a little farther, to nowhere in particular, before Amara turned to face the man and horse. She seemed to study them both from head to foot and from the inside out before she nodded in satisfaction.

“Valorian,” the goddess spoke sincerely, “a great misfortune has befallen me. To my distress, I have lost a possession that is very dear to me and very important to your world. ”

Valorian said nothing, only lifted an eyebrow to punctuate his interest. It was obvious to him that Amara had snatched him away from the Harbingers for her own purpose, but he couldn’t imagine why. What would a goddess as powerful as Amara need with a simple mortal clansman? He tilted his head slightly to watch her face and listened as she continued.

“By the reckoning of your world, it happened fourteen days ago. My brother, Sorh, opened the mountain fastness of Ealgoden to imprison the soul of a particularly loathsome slave collector, when he made the mistake of allowing several gorthlings to escape.”

Valorian drew a sharp breath.

“Exactly,” the goddess said flatly. A grimace of disgust marred her exquisite face. “The little brutes were quickly retrieved, but not before they wreaked havoc on the mountaintop where we reside. One of the gorthlings stole my crown and took it back with him into the mountain.”

The clansman’s hand tightened around his sword hilt. He wasn’t certain whether to be furious with indignation at the crime perpetrated on the Mother of All or horrified by the thought that was beginning to form in his mind. “Have you asked Lord Sorh to return your crown?” he asked quietly.

“Naturally. However, my brother is in perpetual competition with me. What I bring to life, he brings to death. We battle constantly. He feels this is just another game and that I must fetch the crown myself.”

“Which you cannot do,” Valorian stated. He thought he knew now what she wanted . . . and it terrified him.

The goddess turned her ancient eyes on the man. “As you have wisely deduced, Valorian, I cannot. I have very little influence over Sorh’s minions, so I dare not go myself.” She gestured angrily at the sky, setting her dress shimmering with her agitation. “The crown stolen by the gorthlings is one of three divine emblems that I bear. My scepter controls the wind and my orb governs the clouds, but it is my crown that carries the power to rule your sun. Without my three regalia working in harmony together, I cannot properly control the natural forces of the weather.”

“That is why there has been so much rain?”

Amara swept her arm down. “Yes! Without the power of the sun to balance the wind and clouds, your world will eventually drown in rain.”

Valorian made no reply, but a host of unpleasant thoughts trooped through his mind. He was horrified by the idea of entering the sacred mountain of Ealgoden. The mountain in the realm of the dead was both the home of the gods on its peak and the prison of the souls of the damned. Within its dark heart, named Gormoth, the fearsome gorthlings of Sorh kept the souls of those unworthy for peace trapped in eternal torment. No one went willingly to seek the gorthlings inside Ealgoden. Valorian knew if he failed to escape, he would be trapped inside forever.

Still, he believed he had to try, not only for the sake of his Clan’s beloved goddess, but for his people as well. If he had to be dead, he could never be at peace knowing he had failed to try to save them from a world doomed to die.

A sudden glint lit his blue eyes at another thought. If he were successful, the goddess might want to reward him, and he could think of several things the goddess of life could do for his Clan.

But the gorthlings of Sorh! By Surgart’s sword! He just hoped the goddess’s trust in him was not misplaced. He took a deep breath to steady his voice.

“I will find your crown,” he told her.

Amara smiled a long, knowing smile. “Thank you, clansman.” She turned to Hunnul and laid her fingertips on his soft muzzle. The stallion didn’t budge. “What of you, my worthy child of the wind? Will you go also?”

Valorian wouldn’t have thought his horse had understood what was being said, but Hunnul bobbed his head and neighed in reply.

The goddess stepped back, satisfied. “He is a good horse. He will follow you where you need to go.” Her soft tone hardened to a command. “Now, mount, my son. I have something to give you before you go.”

Valorian quickly obeyed. Now that his decision was made, he didn’t want to risk having any second thoughts. He sprang into the saddle and faced the goddess, his expression set.

“Lord Sorh will give you no trouble. I will see to that,” Amara said. “However, the gorthlings will be more than trouble. Your sword will not avail you in the tunnels of Gormoth. Therefore I give you a greater weapon.” Raising her arms high, the goddess cried, “By the power of the lightning that brought you here, I name you magic-wielder.” She abruptly flung her hands out toward the man, and Valorian gasped as another bolt of lightning hurled toward him. He had no chance to flinch before it struck him full on the chest.

Yet this strike did not hurt. It pierced through his chest and sizzled to the ends of his soul, warming him to the core of his existence, strengthening him, empowering him with a strange new energy.

Surprised, he stretched out his hands and saw a pale blue aura covering his body like a second skin. “What—what is it?” he managed to ask.

“You now have the power to wield magic, clansman.”

“Magic!” he said, dumbfounded. “There is no such thing.”

Amara’s hands gestured again in a wide embrace of the plain, and her hair waved like summer grass. “Of course there is! When the world was created, a vestige of the power that fueled that creation remained behind in every natural thing. It permeates your world, Valorian, and our immortal world as well. You have seen its effects. Magic forms rainbows and unexpected things you call miracles. It is responsible for creatures that you have never seen and know only in legends. It has always been and always will be.”

“Then why haven’t men known of this power and learned to control it?” he demanded.

“Some people do know of the existence of magic. None have been able to control it. Until now.”

Valorian stared dubiously at his hands. The blue aura was fading; in a moment, it was gone. “How do I use this power?” he asked, his doubt still clear in his voice.

“Use your strength of will,” the goddess instructed him patiently. “Decide what it is that you want to do, clarify that intent in your mind, and bend the magic to your will. Forming a spell of words that states your intention will help. You can create destructive bolts and protective shields, alter the appearance of things, move large objects—just use your imagination. You are limited only by your own strength and your own weaknesses.”

“Imagination,” Valorian muttered. He was finding this whole conversation very difficult to accept. Still, he couldn’t very well argue with the goddess without giving the magic a try. He closed his eyes, concentrating on an image of a small lightning bolt. He didn’t feel anything or notice anything different about himself, and nothing happened. This obviously wasn’t working.

“The magic is here, clansman! Concentrate!” he heard Amara say sharply.

Startled, he quickly erased his mind of all thought but the one of a bolt of power, a brilliant, sizzling bolt that would terrify gorthlings and bring him safely out of Gormoth.

Something stirred within him. Valorian felt an odd sensation of power that he had never experienced before suddenly fill his mind and flow through his body. Slowly he raised his right arm and threw his hand forward. To his surprise, the strange power surged. He opened his eyes in time to see a blue bolt pop out of his fingers and shoot across the plain of stone. It wasn’t large or dazzling, but it was his, and he watched it with his mouth ajar until it dissipated in the distance.

Amara tilted her head up, looking pleased. “Well done, Valorian. You will learn. ”

The clansman bowed to her, his face full of shock, excitement, and success. “Lady Amara, just one question.” She nodded once. “Why did you choose me?” he wanted to know. “Surely there are others who are better warriors or who have greater courage than I.”

She laughed, a rich, warm sound of affection. “Perhaps there are others, Valorian. But my champion must have every bit as much intelligence as courage. It would not be wise to rush blindly into the gorthlings’ lair.”

Without warning, the goddess suddenly coalesced into a glowing cloud of brilliant light and scintillating color that rose high over the clansman’s head. She glittered in the gray air like a radiant star.

“Wait!” he shouted. “Where do I go? How will I find you again?”

“The Harbingers will take you,” Amara’s voice called, “and I will find you when the time comes.” Hunnul neighed a ringing farewell.

Valorian watched the glowing cloud soar high in the dull sky, then streak away with the speed of a comet. A mixture of emotions rose in his heart at her leaving, not the least of which was fear. Now that the goddess and her loving comfort were gone, Valorian felt a rush of cold apprehension at what he had agreed to do. No man in his right mind would deliberately volunteer to enter the foul caverns of Ealgoden and hope to escape unscathed. It was impossible. Nevertheless, he had offered to go, and one way or another—even with this strange power of magic—he was going to try to succeed.

He heard again the thundering hooves of the Harbingers’ steeds. Like huge white phantoms they rode out of the sky, swift and shining, to come to a neighing, prancing stop in front of the clansman.

This time Valorian reluctantly bowed his head to their summons. Hunnul stepped forward into the midst of the white steeds, and the clansman and his escort rode forward across the plain of stone.