The Godlost Land (41 page)

This was turning out to be a bad day for everyone. And yet even as he let the gloom settle over him he wondered why he had ever imagined it would be otherwise. They had always been doomed. From the day Lion's Crest had fallen their suffering had been assured. It was just that for a while he had allowed himself to forget that. To dream. To hope. And that was the true mistake. Hope.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Harl lay in bed staring at the ceiling that night. He couldn't sleep. Not since Nyma had brought him the news that afternoon. It was hard to imagine that just when things had been going so well they could suddenly turn so bad. Or that she would even now be riding off to face her death. It was hard to understand that even the Blind Mistress of Fortune could be so cruel. But then secretly he'd always known that this would go wrong. That the hope had been a lie. It had all been a cruel dream. Years of running and hiding had taught him that. You never let hope rule your life. It would fail you every time. It would destroy you if you let it. The only way to survive was to give away hope. To expect the worst. And to be ready for it.

Still, the change in fortunes was shocking. And it had come so swiftly. The High Priestess had been winning. Two of the Circle wizards were dead. That left only ten. And they had taken Midland Heights only two weeks before. The Rainbow Mountains were free. It had been a miracle to him. To the entire realm.

And now he found that it wasn't a miracle after all. It had just been a lie. A dream. And he had finally woken up. Harl still couldn't quite come to terms with that. Nor with what was surely coming. It was going to be bad. For everyone.

Now it seemed that the High Priestess was besieged, trapped in Midland Heights with her army, a city that no longer had any useful walls. The Circle's beast army would break through their lines soon if they hadn't already. And when they did, when they had destroyed their army and captured or killed the High Priestess, things would swiftly return to how they had been. In fact things would probably be worse than before.

The chimera would return to the land along with the soldiers and the false priests. In fact there would probably be more of them than before. They would rebuild their false temples and once more crush the people under their heels. Whitebrook would be devastated. And as for those like him, they would be hunted even more relentlessly than before. He would be hunted. Harl would once more have to get used to being alone.  And this time the burden would be harder as there would be even less outcasts to call friend. After all, most of those who had lived in exile in the wilds had joined up. Most of them were in Midland Heights, waiting to die. There were probably very few wizards and priests left free in the Rainbow Mountains. They either worked for the demon following Circle or they were about to die.

Harl would have called the turn in fortunes a disaster save that the word truly didn't describe the horror that he knew was about to befall the land. He wasn't sure that there was any word that truly did.

As for him, there was nothing he could do. He wanted to fight. He truly did. The rage and pain and hatred was moving within him as it hadn't in five long years. Not since he had stood on the wall with Rickarial. But he knew he couldn't win. Not that way. This was not a battle that could be won by one man with a sword. It was a war. It needed armies. They needed an army. They needed the gods themselves. But all he had to offer was himself. And the only thing he could do was what he was doing.

It wasn't enough. Harl hated that but it was the truth. He could craft night and day. He could give the soldiers everything he had to give. Still, it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

And when it ended as it would he would have to run. It was no longer a choice any more. People knew about him, They knew about his smithy. And the path from the southern track to it had been opened up so that anyone travelling south would see it. He was going to have to run again. And this time he would probably have to leave the Rainbow Mountains all together. Maybe it was finally time to take that last step and head south into the wastelands and seek a new life beyond the five kingdoms? Maybe it was time to give up.

But he didn't want to run. He hated the idea with all that he was. To run was to admit defeat. To fail the memory of his family whose bones now lay somewhere in Lion's Crest. He could not fail them again. He wanted to fight. He wanted to kill. He wanted to hunt down and rip the hearts out of the wizards who had murdered his family and his home. But he just couldn't. They needed to die, but he was too weak to kill them. Some days he wished he was a powerful wizard. That he could throw around fire balls and lightning bolts as others did. But he never had been that and he never would be.

All night long he had tossed and turned as those thoughts ran through his mind. Torn between hatred, anger and fear. Between the desire to kill and the need to run. And possessed by the feeling of failure. Every time he closed his eyes he could feel the breath of a chimera on his neck or hear the baying of the cerberi in the distance. He could hear the cries of the people back in Lion's Crest as they were hunted down and torn to pieces. And he could hear the dying screams of his family. There was no peace for him. He feared there never would be again.

He had prayed endlessly to the gods; nearly all of them. Over and over again. But of course he had heard nothing. He was not a faithful man though, so why should he expect to? His family had raised him to follow Hera, the Mistress of Home and Hearth, and he had always made his offerings and said his prayers. But he had never truly believed. Not that she was there, for he knew she was. Just that she would care about him. She had always seemed a quiet goddess to him. Most of the gods were.

Maybe it was time to find a new god? One who actually rewarded the faithful for their belief? As he lay there Harl thought on that. Not so much that it was fickle and probably pointless. But who should he chose to give his prayer to? Who would reward him for his faith?

Most wizards followed either Prometheus because they claimed that magic was something beyond all understanding and when he had brought fire to the world he had also brought magic. Or they followed Apollo because knowledge was such a huge part of being a wizard. But the benefits they gained from their faith usually weren't that great. A little knowledge, an unexpected way of looking at things, the odd spell. Useful but not life changing. And he needed life changing. He needed world changing.

He needed a war god on his side. Because war was what he was facing. He needed a god who could grant him the power to destroy his enemies. To crush them underfoot. But Ares could not help him. The God of War served armies, not single warriors. He brought courage to the men, and leadership to the war masters. He guided the blades of his followers in battle. But that wasn't enough. And unfortunately his temples had been destroyed along with those of all the others. His followers had died with the others. His priests had been killed too. Against this false temple the God of War was not enough.

The only other choice was Lyssa the Goddess of Madness and Rage. The Goddess of Wrath. Lyssa for her followers was the very essence of the berserker. And there was no doubt that she granted them very powerful gifts. She granted them power, strength and stamina. A true berserker could rage day and night, never tire and never give into weakness. But the bond between goddess and follower was absolute. Once the connection was made and the bond fully accepted, there was no end to it save death. Lyssa did not have temples. She was not one of the thirteen. Instead the beating hearts of her followers were her temples. And while she gave with one hand the Goddess of Madness and Rage took with the other. The berserkers might have her divine fury beating in their chests, but they lost all reason. No wizard could ever allow himself to be depleted of his reason.   Still, Harl knew that some days he was close to the Goddess of Wrath. Closer than he should be. He had lived on the edge of unreasoning fury for a very long time. But always he knew he could not give into it.

That left him few options. Helios was popular with the wizards of fire. With the might of the sun in their hearts the magic they could cast grew enormously in power. But he was an arcane smith. He could only enchant that magic into weapons, weapons that an army would have to wield. And he had no army.

Dike Astraea might seek to bring justice to the mortal world, and there was no doubt that Harl wanted justice brought. The five kingdoms cried out for it. But her justice did not usually include battlefields covered in blood, and though it was probably wrong, he wanted that. He wanted these false priests to pay for what they had done. He wanted the traitorous wizards dead.

Zeus surely had the power to smash those false temple demon worshippers apart, but he did not answer the prayers of men. He was the father of the gods, and they in turn were his followers. Meanwhile Nemesis who also had the strength was their law. He would only act to right the wrongs done to the other gods.

As for the rest, if you wanted health, happiness, luck or love, they could fulfil your desires. But he needed none of those things. He needed to destroy his enemies.

In fact of all the other gods and goddesses there was only one remaining who could help him win any sort of battle. Or more importantly this battle. And one who, as he finally remembered from his youth, had a weapon that could help him. Artemis the Huntress. Because he knew that the best way to kill a snake was to cut off its head. And maybe if they could cut this army's head off they could kill it.

The irony of that wasn't lost on him. In fact it was so bitter that it left a bad taste in his mouth that he feared might be with him for life. But she had the one weapon that might turn this war back in their favour. Her bow.

He could not pray to her. He could not follow her. He could barely even bring himself to speak her name. But he needed her. More truthfully he needed her bow. With it he might not be able to defeat the Circle's armies. But he could kill the Circle. And a snake without its head still died.

“Artemis.” He went to bow his head and then stopped himself. It was not right. Not for what he wanted or needed from her.  And it wasn't honest either. He would never bow to her.

“I am not your follower. I will never be that. But I am your ally. I share your hunt. And I name the demon wizards of the Circle my quarry just as they are yours. I rescued your High Priestess and through her allowed you to reclaim some of your respect. But now she and hers are trapped. The hunt is in danger. The quarry will kill the hunter.”

“But the hunt can still succeed. Your High Priestess needs your most sacred weapon. The longbow of the Huntress. With it the quarry can be brought down even when they come with overwhelming force.”

“Teach me the design, the recipes and the spells and I will craft it for her.”

There was no answer of course. And he knew that he shouldn't really have expected one. Why would Artemis ever come to him? They might no longer be enemies, but they were far from friends and he would never be her follower. Still, Harl was disappointed. For a moment, just a brief one, he had hoped. But hope as always was a rusty dagger in his heart being twisted by life.

Still the prayer had been given. The last of the gods he had any knowledge of had been called upon for aid. And there was nothing else to do save what he had been doing. Craft as many weapons as he could for the soldiers and hope that they helped bring a few more chimera down.

It wasn't enough though. Harl knew that as he slipped away once more into a restless sleep, from which he knew he would awaken again shortly. And he would go through all the doubts and fears and prayers again many more times before morning. It was simply the way of things.

But when he awoke, when the darkness was just beginning to give way to the faintest of blues, Harl discovered something.

He knew the secret to making the Goddess' longbow. And one more thing was there too. He also knew that it had to be done quickly.

Chapter Thirty

Harl was hard at work when the commander came to bother him. Just as he had been for the last three days. For all that time he had not slept or eaten. He had not bathed or washed his teeth. He had not thought about anything except the bow he was crafting.

But that was as it should be. This was a master work. More than a master work. It was art. Divine art such as a man like him had never before known. Art which he would probably never know again. But that was fine by him. It was enough that he was crafting it. That it was forming in his hands. For an arcane smith that was all he could ever ask for.

And it was nearly ready. The two shafts of perfectly shaped and dried sapling yew had been fused with the resins and stained. The spells for flexibility and tension had been enchanted into the wood, and the results were perfect.

The grip had been moulded to fit the High Priestess' hands exactly. And the silver and steel cylinders extending from it that would hold the wooden shafts had been adjusted to the perfect angle. Then the enchantments needed to make the bow everything it needed to be had been woven into it. Some of them had been etched into the wood. Some into the metal. The springs that allowed the cylinders and the wooden shafts to be pulled back and released with incredible power had been enchanted. Even the steel string was enchanted for strength so that it would not break.

And the sights were a thing of wonder. The little crystals on the ends of them would bring the face of an enemy into view even a league away. And this bow he had no doubt would then be able to send an arrow flying across all that distance.

As for the arrows, the three score of them that now lay on his work bench were perfect. They would fly straight and true across almost any distance. And when they hit their target the steel heads would tear flesh apart as nothing else could, just before the enchantment for the blood burn turned the victim into a raging bonfire.

There was no doubt that this was a master work. It was the finest weapon he would ever craft. And it would bring down his enemies no matter where they hid. His only regret was that it was not his to use. But then that had always been the understanding. He was the smith, not the archer.

“Harl, are you listening to me?”

Harl became aware of the commander briefly as she shouted at him, and even knew that she had been talking to him for some time. Asking him about something. But it didn't matter. He forgot Marni as quickly as he had noticed her. He had to do the final assembly. That was all that mattered.

It was a simple process. The wooden shafts simply slotted into the silver and steel cylinders, and then he pushed the pins home to hold them securely. A tiny spark of fire from his fingers meant that the locking pins would not come free. A few minutes was all it took before the longbow could be seen in his hands.

“What is wrong with you?” Marni grabbed at his arm as he prepared to start the stringing, and for a moment he saw her standing there. He saw the worried look on her face. But then a growl from behind him made her turn away and let go of his arm and he forgot her again. The griffins were warning her to leave him be. Since they had arrived a few days before they had been very protective of him.

Harl reached for the steel string and tied one end around the tip of the bow with the knot he had tied especially for the task. After that it was just a matter of tying the other end. And that was easier than he'd expected. The bow was so beautifully supple that it bent easily with one arm while the other end was pushed into the ground.

The weapon was finished.

Suddenly Harl held the completed bow in his hand and felt the magic that flowed through it. He knew the perfection of its form as he did the genius of its design. And above all he knew that it was ready.

He would have loved to have used it. Because he knew that in his hands the seven foot tall longbow would be a mighty weapon indeed. But in the hands it was destined to be held by, it would become something far greater still.

So instead of notching an arrow and thinking about doing something that bordered on the sacrilegious, he reached for the twine on the work bench and started wrapping the bow for transport. Tying the arrows together in a bundle and then tying them to the bow. And when the griffin came to him to accept the parcel he carefully tied it to the beast.

It was difficult tying a huge longbow to a winged lion. But he managed it so that eventually the bow hung beneath the griffin's body well enough that he knew it would not come loose in flight. What was more important to him was that the High Priestess would know what to do with it when it arrived, and over and over again he kept telling the creature that he had to tell her to bless it. She would surely know that, but he had to make certain. He only wished the griffin could speak so he could yell it at her when he arrived.

And then it was done.

Harl watched the griffin take to the skies along with his companion and he knew his work was complete. It was perfect. There was nothing more he could do. And as the two of them became smaller and smaller objects in the sky he suddenly started to feel the weariness of the last three days claiming him. It was more than weariness. It was complete exhaustion. And it wasn't just from the three days and nights that he'd toiled. It was something to do with the magic he had cast. He'd spent everything he had in enchanting the bow and it had drained him. Like a man who had just run a marathon, he had nothing left.

“What was that?”

The commander was speaking to him again, tugging at his elbow, asking him all sorts of questions as fast as she could and he didn't know how to answer her. He didn't even know how he was able to stand by then. Every bone and sinew in his body was crying out for sleep. Begging him to simply collapse there and then. But he couldn't do that. Not on the cold ground. Not when there was somewhere so much more comfortable to rest.

Immediately he saw it burning brightly he knew it was there that he needed to be, and he went to it, somehow levering himself up and then collapsing into the pit. He remembered master Gallowgood doing exactly the same thing many times while he'd been his apprentice. Every arcane smith should sleep in his pit from time to time he'd said. Spreading the burning hot stones around so they shaped themselves to the proportions of his body, all while somewhere in the distance the commander was screaming at him. He wished she'd stop doing that. It was annoying.

And then as the flames burnt his clothes off him he closed his eyes knowing that it was finally time to rest. If only the commander would stop yelling at him. But of course he realised, she wanted her arms.

“Marni, just a few more days and I'll have the swords ready. I promise.”