The Children of Llothora Page 3
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PROLOGUE
Alchamedus gazed down at the world below him as he stood atop the battlements of the Forsaken Tower. The Tower stood at the top of the Skar, the tallest mountain on Aerth. Icy winds lashed at his frail frame, easily cutting through his heavy roves. Each breath felt like it coated his insides with frost, reminding him how hostile the environment was. The wind spirits around Alchamedus shrieked in fury as his power forced them to retreat from each of their assaults. Though Alchamedus longed to sit beside a roaring fire and rest his weary bones, he could not. He knew his duty. The Vigil had to be performed. The Wound had to be protected, and only the Arakon had to the power to protect it.
Alchamedus could feel the Wound pulsing below him, far beneath the Tower, deep in the center of the Skar. It was as if the world itself throbbed in pain. The Wound was the last remnant of a battle which had taken place here thousands of years ago, when the foul Surok'tarn had been cast from Aerth through a rift into the Hells. The very fabric of Aerth had never fully healed from the damage the rift had caused. The Wound was the only place where such a rift could ever be opened again, and each Arakon was sworn to stop anyone from reopening the Wound and freeing the Surok'tarn. Not even leading the Triumvirate, the illustrious society formed to foster and train humanity's Gifts, was as vital as protecting the Wound.
Alchamedus sucked in a deep breath, still frigid despite the aura of heat he had created with his Gift. His years weighed heavily upon him. He was older than any Arakon that had come before him. He longed for the opportunity to set his burdens aside, but could not. Each Arakon survived until his or her successor had been found and had assumed their duties. Alchamedus had not sensed even the slightest hint of his successor anywhere in the world. Being the Arakon wasn't something you bestowed on another. It was a matter of destiny. You were born to be the Arakon, or you were not. Until he discovered the next Arakon was out there, Alchamedus was forced to accept his role, no matter how tired and thinly-stretched he had become.
It was time. Alchamedus gathered his will, and clenched the twisted black staff in his hands even tighter, feeling the core of power within its alien wood. He would not use that power unless necessary, but it was reassuring to know that the power, chaos in its purest form, was available to him. Gathering his will, Alchamedus began a Compelling only he was capable of.
When humanity had still been in its infancy on Aerth, they had discovered the Great Spirits, beings whose powers were so vast that lesser spirits bowed to them in fealty. Early man had thought of these beings as gods, and had worshiped them for centuries until the Church of Alluman had converted almost every person on Aerth to the worship of their monotheistic religion. Few remembered the Great Spirits anymore, but their powers were at times essential for Alchamedus' duties though he could not call on them without risk. The Triumvirate called those with the Gift to Compel lesser spirits Vordanitar. These Gifted could make lesser spirits obey their commands, using their powers at the behest of the Vordanitar. Great Spirits could not be Compelled in this way. Any Vordanitar who attempted such a Compelling would be destroyed for their hubris. The Arakon, however, possessed the might to Compel a Great Spirit, though not into servitude, but rather into sharing a measure of their power the Arakon.
Alchamedus called to the Spirit he called the "Sky Father," the same name early Valdarans had used when worshiping it long ago. He Compelled it to manifest its awareness and power into his presence, in a form of his choosing. The Sky Father would resist, and their wills would struggle to overcome one another. If Alchamedus' will proved dominant, the Sky Father would manifest and grant Alchamedus the power to observe everything that took place under every sky whose winds swore fealty to the Great Spirit.
Heat blossomed within Alchamedus as his struggle with the Sky Father began. The fever spread, threatening hallucinations designed to ruin his concentration, but Alchamedus pulled out a vial containing an elixir he had brewed using his Alkesarim Gift, and downed its contents. A portion of his strength paid for the elixir's effects as it changed his anatomy to help him better fight off the fever. Alchamedus began to focus on the vague form of the body he was Compelling the Sky Father to assume.
Their struggle continued. Wind spirits struck at Alchamedus, following the commands of their master. Alchamedus could have Compelled each spirit to turn away, as he had earlier, but it would have cost him precious concentration and will, creating an opening for a new attack from the Sky Father. Alchamedus called on his Saritar Gift, using it to transform the heat aura around himself into a shield of force. It couldn't be entirely solid, or else he would cut off his supply of air, but it was resilient enough to turn away most of the force from the wind spirits' assaults, though the temperature around Alchamedus dropped considerably. Ignoring the arctic cold for the moment, Alchamedus added more detail to his mental construct, defining muscle and creating a cold circulatory system designed to carry the Sky Father's winds throughout this artificial body.
Seizing on the sudden opportunity, the Sky Father tried to lower the temperature even more. Ice formed on the tips of Alchamedus' beard and nose. His body tried to generate heat by shivering. Alchamedus gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the cold, concentrating on creating the construct's face. Each breath he drew was agony, overwhelming anything Alchamedus could do to try and defend himself from the attack. He pressed on, throwing all of his will against the Sky Father, allowing even his shield of force to dissipate. The wind spirits shrieked in triumph and prepared for a final attack. As they dove to attack, his construct took full form and the Sky Father's resistance broke. The Great Spirit's essence filled the construct, bringing it to life in the form of a wizened old man similar in appearance to Alchamedus himself.