Percepliquis Read online

  Trumpets blared.

  All conversations halted, each head turned, and everyone stood as the empress entered the hall. Her Eminence Modina Novronian passed through the arched doorway, looking every inch the daughter of a god. She wore a black gown gorgeously hand embroidered with a rainbow of colored thread and adorned with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. Around her neck, a starched ruff rose in the shape of a Calian lily. She wore long sleeves with wrist ruffs that scalloped her hands. On her ears dangled sparkling earrings, and on her breast lay a necklace of pearl. As she walked, a long black velvet mantle embroidered with the imperial crest trailed behind her. The days of begging a clerk for dress material were long gone.

  The woman Hadrian saw before him had the face of Thrace Wood, but she was not the little girl he had once pulled from the gutter on Capital Street in Colnora. She walked tall, her shoulders back, her gaze elevated. She did not look at anyone, nor turn her head prematurely, her sight fixed by the direction she faced. She took her time, walking elegantly, in an arc that allowed her train to straighten before she reached the head of the table.

  Hadrian smiled to himself as he remembered how a madam had once suggested that, to save her from starvation, she should join the roster at the Bawdy Bottom Brothel. He had responded with the prophetic words “Something tells me she’s not a prostitute.”

  A steward removed the mantle from her shoulders and placed the chair behind her, but the empress did not sit. Hadrian noted a slight stiffening of her posture as she surveyed her guests. He followed her line of sight, noting the last empty chair.

  She addressed Nimbus. “Did you notify the Patriarch of my summons?”

  “I did, Your Eminence.”

  She sighed, then looked upon her subjects.

  “Lords and ladies, forgive me. I will forgo customary traditions. My chancellor tells me there are many formalities I am expected to follow; however, such things take time and time is a luxury we can’t afford.”

  It was eerie, Hadrian thought, seeing her addressing heads of state, as calmly as if she were holding a tea party for children.

  “As most of you already know, Avryn has been invaded. We believe the attack began more than a month ago, but we were uncertain until very recently. The information comes from the refugees fleeing south and twelve teams of scouts I had sent north, many of whom never returned. Sir Breckton, if you will please explain the situation as it now stands…”

  Sir Breckton rose and stood before the assembly, wearing a long black cape over his dress tunic. All eyes turned to him, not just because he was about to speak, but because Sir Breckton was one of those men who commanded attention. There was something in the way he held himself. He managed to appear taller, straighter, and stouter than other men. Breckton made a formal bow to the empress, then faced the table.

  “While none of the scouts managed to pierce the advance troops to report on the main body of the elven army, what we have learned is unsettling enough. We now believe that at midnight on Wintertide, elements of the Erivan Empire crossed the Nidwalden River with a force estimated at over a hundred thousand. They conquered the kingdom of Dunmore in less than a week and Glamrendor is gone. King Roswort, Queen Freda, and their entire court—lost, presumably on their return trip from the Wintertide celebration.”

  Heads turned left and right and Hadrian heard the words hundred thousand and less than a week repeated between them. Breckton paused for only a moment before speaking again.

  “The elven host continued west, entering unopposed into Ghent. Estimates suggest they conquered it in eight days. Whether Ghent put up a fight, we don’t know. It has been confirmed, however, that the university at Sheridan was burned and Ervanon destroyed.”

  The men at the table shifted with more anxiety but less was said.

  “They entered Melengar next,” he told them, and a few heads turned toward Alric. “Drondil Fields made a last stand, heroically providing time for as many as possible to escape south. The fortress managed to hold out for one day.”

  “A day?” King Vincent exclaimed. He looked at Alric, who nodded solemnly. “How can this be?”

  “King Fredrick.” The empress addressed the monarch seated to her left. “Please repeat what you told us.”

  King Fredrick stood up, brushing the folds from his clothes. He was a squat, balding man with a round belly that pressed the limits of the front of his tunic.

  “Not long after the Wintertide holiday—perhaps a few days at most—travelers brought news of trouble in Calis. They told stories of Ghazel hitting the coast in droves. They called it The Flood. Hundreds of thousands of the mongrels stormed the cliffs at Gur Em Dal.”

  “Are you saying the elves are in league with the Ghazel?” Cornelius DeLur asked.

  The king shook his head. “No, they weren’t warriors. Well, some may have been, but the impression I got was that they too were refugees. They were fleeing and running where they could. The Calian warlords slaughtered many on the eastern coast, but the deluge was so great they could not entirely stem the wave. Within a week, bands of Ghazel were on the border of Galeannon and slipping into the Vilan Hills. We lost all communication with Calis—no more travelers have come out.”

  Fredrick took his seat.

  “As of this very afternoon,” Sir Breckton said, “we received word that a ship by the name of the Silver Fin was five days out of its port in Kilnar when it saw Wesbaden burning. Beyond it, the captain said he saw another column of smoke rising in the distance, which he guessed to be Dagastan.”

  “Why would the elves launch an attack on both the Ghazel and us? Why open two fronts?” Sir Elgar asked.

  “It’s likely they don’t consider either the Ghazel or ourselves to be a serious threat,” Breckton told them. “Sources report the elven host is accompanied by scores of dragons who burn everything in their path. Other reports speak of equally disturbing capabilities, such as the ability to control the weather and call down lightning. There are stories of huge monsters that shake the earth, burrowing beasts, lights that blind, and a mist that… devours people.”

  “Are these fairy stories you would have us believe, Breckton?” Murthas asked. “Giants, monsters, mists, and elves? Who were these scouts? Old wives?”

  This brought chuckles from both Elgar and Gilbert and a smile from Rudolf.

  “They were good men, Sir Murthas, and it does not befit you to speak ill of the courageous dead.”

  “I grieve for the lives of the men who died,” King Armand said. “But seriously, Breckton, a mist that kills people? You make them out to be the sum of all nightmares, as if every tale of boogeyman, ghost, or wraith spills out of the wood across the Nidwalden. These are only elves, after all. You make them sound like invincible gods that—”

  They came with hardly a warning,

  thousands both beautiful and terrible;

  They came on brilliant white horses

  wearing shining gold and shimmering blue;

  They came with dragons and whirlwinds,

  and giants made of stone and earth;

  They came and nothing could stop them.

  They are coming still.

  The voice issued from the doorway and all heads turned as into the great hall entered an old man. It was hard to say what caught Hadrian’s eyes first, as so much was startling. The man’s hair, which did not begin until well behind his balding forehead, was long enough to reach the back of his knees and was beyond gray, beyond white, appearing almost purple, like the edges of a rotting potato. His mouth lacked lips, his eyes were without brows, and his cheeks were shriveled. He wore a cascade of glittering purple, gold, and red—robes displayed with relish—flaunting it with dramatic sweeps of his arms as he walked using a tall staff. Brilliant blue eyes shifted restlessly around the room, never pausing for too long on any one person. His jaw, held taut in an openmouthed grin, showed a surprising full complement of teeth, his expression a silent laugh.

  Behind him entered two equally shocking guards
. They wore shimmering gold breastplates over top shirts of vertical red, purple, and yellow stripes with long cuffs and billowing sleeves. Matching pants plumed out, gathering just below the knee into long striped stockings. Across their chests, stretching from their shoulders, hung silver braids and tassels of honor. They wore gold helms with messenger wings that hid their faces. Each held unusual weapons, long halberds with ornately curved blades at both ends, which they held tight to their sides with one arm straight down and the other high across their chests.

  The guards halted in perfect unison, snapping their heels in one audible clack. The old man continued forward, approaching Modina. He stopped before her, slamming the metal tip of his staff down on the stone floor.

  “Forgive me, Your Eminence,” the old man announced in a loud voice, and followed with an elaborate bow, which allowed him the opportunity to further display the grandeur of his robes. “My apologies cannot begin to elevate the depth of my sadness at having failed to arrive at the appointed time, but alas, I was irrevocably detained. I do hope you can forgive a feeble old man.”

  Modina stared at him, her expression blank. She said nothing.

  The old man waited, shifting his weight, tilting his head from side to side.

  Modina glanced at Nimbus.

  “Patriarch Nilnev,” the chancellor addressed the old man. “If you will please take your seat.”

  The Patriarch looked at Nimbus, then back to Modina. With a curious expression, he nodded, walked to the empty chair, clacking his staff with each step, and sat down.

  “Patriarch Nilnev,” Breckton said. “Can you explain your interruption of King Armand’s comments?”

  “I was quoting an ancient text: ‘And lo the sylvan gods prey on Man. They that death does not visit and time does not mar. Firstborn fairy kings, undisputed lords, mankind cowers before thee.’ ” He recited the words with reverence and paused before continuing, “The ancient writings speak clearly of the power of the elves. So much time has passed, so much dust covers the years, that man has forgotten the world as it was before the coming of our lord Novron. Before his sacred birth, the elves ruled all the land. Every fair place, every sunlit hill and green valley, lay under their dominion. They were firstborn, greatest of the inhabitants of Elan. We forgot because the miracle of Novron made such amnesia possible. Before his coming, the elves were invincible.”

  “Forgive me, Your Holiness.” Sir Elgar spoke up, his voice like the growl of a bear. “But that’s a load of bull. Elves are as weak as women and dumber than cattle.”

  “Have you crossed the Nidwalden, Sir Elgar? Have you seen a true member of the Erivan Empire? Or are you speaking of the mir?”

  “What’s a mir?”

  “A mir—or kaz in Calian—is one of those wretched, vile creatures that so often used to defile the streets of cities throughout Apeladorn. Those emaciated, loathsome perversions with pointed ears and slanted eyes who carry a muddied mix of human and elven blood are abominations. Mirs are remnants of a conquered people that have less in common with elves than you do with a goldfish. Elf and human cannot coexist. They are mortal enemies by divine providence. The mixing of their blood in a single body has produced a contemptible walking insult to both Maribor and Ferrol, and the gods’ wrath has fallen upon them. You should not presume to look at a mir and guess at the nature of an elf.”

  “Okay, I get the point. Still, I’ve never come across any creature that draws breath who is immune from the sharpened tip of a sword,” Elgar said.

  This produced pounding of fists on the table and grunts of agreement from the other knights—all except Breckton.

  “The ancient text tells us that prior to the coming of Novron, no elf was ever killed by a man. Moreover, due to their long life, no human ever saw an elven corpse. This gave rise to the belief that they were immortal gods. ‘Soft of foot, loud as thunder, terrible as lightning, greater than the stars, they come, they come, they come to conquer.’ ”

  “So if they were so great, how did Novron stop them?” Elgar challenged.

  “He was the son of a god,” the Patriarch replied simply. “And”—he paused briefly, his grin widening to display even more teeth—“he had help in the form of the Rhelacan.”

  “The divine sword?” Sir Breckton asked skeptically.

  The Patriarch shook his head. “It was created by the gods, but the Rhelacan is not a sword; it is the Trumpet of Ferrol, the Call of Nations, the Syord duah Gylindora that Novron used to defeat the Erivan Nation. Many make the same mistake. In the Old Speech the word syord means horn, but that bit of information was lost when some sloppy translator thought it meant sword. The name Rhelacan is merely Old Speech for relic or artifact. So the Syord duah Gylindora, or Horn of Gylindora, became the sword that is a great relic, or the Rhelacan—the weapon that Novron used against the elves.”

  “How can this… horn… defeat an army?” Sir Breckton asked.

  “It was made by the hand of their god, Ferrol, and holds dominion over them. It gave Novron the power to defeat the elves.”

  “And where might this marvelous trumpet be?” Cornelius DeLur spoke up. “I only ask because in our present circumstances, such a delightful treasure could prove to be quite useful.”

  “Herein lies the great question. The Rhelacan has been lost for centuries. No one knows what became of the Horn of Gylindora. The best accounts place it in the ancient capital of Percepliquis, just before the city vanished.”

  “Vanished?” Cornelius asked, leaning forward as far as his immense girth would allow.

  “Yes,” the Patriarch said. “All accounts from that time report that the city was there one day and gone the next. Percepliquis was consumed, lost, it is said, in a single day.” The Patriarch closed his eyes and spoke in a musical tone:

  Novron’s home, seat of power

  White roads, walls, roofs, and towers

  Upon three hills, fair and tall

  Gone forever, fall the wall.

  Birthplace of our wondrous queen

  Mounted flags of blue and green

  Exquisite mansions, wondrous halls

  Goodbye forever, fall the wall.

  City of Percepliquis

  Ever sought, forever missed

  Pick and shovel, dig and haul

  Search forever, fall the wall.

  Gala halted, city’s doom

  Spring warmth chilled with dust and gloom

  Darkness sealed, blankets all

  Death upon them, fall the wall.

  Ancient stones upon the Lee

  Dusts of memories gone we see

  Once the center, once the all

  Lost forever, fall the wall.

  “I know that,” Hadrian blurted out, and regretted it the moment he did, as all eyes looked his way. “It’s just that I remember hearing that as a kid. Not the whole thing, just the last part. We used to sing it when we played a game called Fall-the-Wall. We didn’t know what it meant. We didn’t think it meant anything. Although some of the kids thought it had something to do with the ruins of Amberton Lee.”

  “It does!” Arista broke in. “Amberton Lee is all that remains of the ancient capital of Percepliquis.”

  Hadrian heard the reactions of disbelief around the table.

  “How do you know this?” Sir Murthas asked inquisitorially. “Scholars and adventurers have searched for centuries and a wit—” He caught himself. “A princess just happens to know where it is? What proof do you have?”

  “I had—” Arista began when the empress cut her off.

  “Princess Arista has provided to me irrefutable proof that what she says is indeed true.” Modina glared at the knight.

  Sir Murthas looked as if he might protest, but he closed his mouth in defeat.

  “I believe the city is buried,” Arista went on. “I think Edmund Hall found a way in. If only we had his journal… but the Crown Tower is gone, along with everything in it.”

  “Wait a minute,” Hadrian said. “Was it a beat-up b
rown leather notebook? About this big?” He gestured with his hands.

  “Yes,” the Patriarch said.

  Arista looked back and forth between them. “How do you know that?”

  “I know it because I have lived in the Crown Tower,” the Patriarch said.

  “And you?” Arista looked at Hadrian, who hesitated.

  “Ha-ha! Of course, of course. I knew it!” Cosmos DeLur chuckled and clapped his hands together in single applause while smiling at Hadrian. “Such a wonderfully delightful rumor as that had to be true. That is an exquisite accomplishment.”

  “You stole it?” Arista asked.

  “Yes, he did,” the Patriarch declared.

  “Actually,” Hadrian said, “Royce and I did, but we put it back the next night.”

  “Riyria’s reputation is well founded,” Cosmos said.

  “I did not wish to lose such an important treasure again, so since then, I’ve kept it with me at all times.” The Patriarch pulled out a small ruddy-brown leather book and lay it on the table. “This is the journal of Edmund Hall, the daily account of his descent into the ancient city of Percepliquis and what lies within.”

  Everyone stared at the book for a moment in silence.

  “The princess is correct,” the Patriarch continued. “The city lies beneath Amberton Lee and Hall did find a means in. He also found a great deal more than that. The journal speaks of a terrible shaft of darkness, an underground sea that must be crossed, insidiously complex tunnels and tight crevices, bloodthirsty tribes of Ba Ran Ghazel, and a monster so terrible Hall could not fully describe it.”

  “You’re saying the ancient capital is only three miles from Hintindar?” Hadrian asked.

  “Yes,” Modina said, “and I plan on sending in a party to retrieve this horn.”