Chapter 1 - Devastation

“Thus says the Word:

In those days, a star will fall from the heavens
and the three will enter the lion’s mouth.
They will break the yokes of the fallen
and bring grief to the deceivers.”

—Seventh Prophecy of Ishmanak the Patient, Whisperer of the Word

Twenty-three lifespans after the Fires of the Old Ones.

* * *

All the gods were evil.

Pelam watched the plumes of black smoke rising against the backdrop of the evening sky, purple and orange in the fading light of the sun, as the first bright stars of the summer night began to appear in the heavens. In every direction he looked, stables, shops, barns, and the homes of people he had known his entire life burned, the roiling flames casting their flickering light across the gravel streets of the small village of Cloverheart. This was where he had grown up, and for nineteen years, he had called this place on the eastern River Plains of the Agerian Empire home. He had spent countless evenings sitting here with the other children of the village in Tared’s shop, listening to the blacksmith tell them tales of old, true or otherwise. And here, he had tasted his first frothy mead in the tavern and stolen his first kiss from the sweet lips of Orania, the baker’s daughter, one warm summer evening behind their barn.

Now, this place was nothing more than a burning memory, a sacrifice upon the altar of the gods.

The betrayal stung his soul no less than the stench of roasting human flesh tortured his nose. But beyond that, he felt numb, perhaps unable or unwilling to fully comprehend the gravity of what had just transpired here.

He clenched his fists into tight knots, realizing with despair he should have known better all along.

As a young boy, perhaps six or seven years old, he had often played in the deep forests outside the village. One summer day, he had looked for frogs in the small stream that flowed past old Halar’s rickety shed, trying to catch them with his bare hands before they managed to jump to safety. It was all in good fun. He just enjoyed watching the beautiful animals, and he never hurt them.

In the clear, cold water, he had seen small brook trout darting back and forth, chasing caddisfly larvae hiding in the golden sand at the bottom. For a brief moment, Pelam had considered going back to his house to fetch his rod and do a bit of fishing, but eventually, he had decided against it. That day, the forest had beckoned him. Along the banks of the stream, the hunter’s son had spotted fresh deer scat.

It had probably just been left by a roe coming down from the forest to drink from the water, but in the mind of the young boy, always filled with grand dreams of adventure, the animal became a giant deer, and he imagined himself hunting it across verdant meadows and steep hills, just like his father often did.

Trying to remember what he had been taught, Pelam did his best to follow the deer tracks deeper into the forest. After a while, he lost sight of the telltale signs of an animal trudging through the dense undergrowth, but that was not something he had wanted to admit to himself. Pretending a small stone had been overturned by the deer’s hooves or a patch of dark green moss had been ripped from the ground by the animal jumping over a fallen tree, he wove a trail in his imagination that took him deeper and deeper into the forest.

Keeping his father’s lessons in mind, he memorized the sun’s position in the sky, so he could find his way home again. Large rocks and distinctive trees became signposts, making the forest no more difficult to navigate than the open road.

Eventually, he reached a small clearing, where tall green grass leisurely swayed in the wind. The open space among the trees was dotted with the splendor of bright red poppies and clear blue cornflowers. For a minute, Pelam just stood there, basking in the sunlight and enjoying the beauty surrounding him. With his eyes closed, he could almost hear the wind whisper his name.

When he opened them again, he realized he hadn’t imagined the voice carried by the soft breeze. On the far side of the field, there was a grove of old alder bushes, their leaves rustling as the wind played among their branches. And from within one of the bushes, a face stared back at him.

Had he been older, he probably would have been scared to find himself being watched, alone in the middle of the forest. But he was just a boy, and the woman looking at him from within the alder leaves was beautiful, and more delightful to his senses than any he had ever seen before.

“Pelam…” the alder spirit had whispered to him. A light gust had carried her words to his ears across the sunlit clearing.

“Pelam…” she purred again, enticing him to come closer.

“Who are you?” he had asked the alluring creature, unable to take his eyes off her. She had told him her name, but he no longer remembered it.

“Do you want to play?” she inquired. “Let us go on a treasure hunt together!”

Nothing could have been more tempting to a young boy, his head filled with stories of adventure and riches.

“Since before the Old Ones, I have watched the hills and the meadows, the trees of the forest and the waters of the streams,” she continued. “For generations, I have seen men come and go, battles fought, and treasures buried and forgotten in the depths of the damp earth.”

She smiled at him, and he felt warm and happy, and more excited than he had ever felt before.

“I can show you where to find riches beyond your imagination.”

He could imagine quite a bit and had been sorely tempted to take the spirit up on her offer. But he could also imagine what his mother would say if he did. It was only an hour—two, at most—until supper, and if he wasn’t home by then, she would scold him and tell him she would have his father talk to him once he returned from his hunt.

The older Gathór had never hurt him, but having to face the disappointment of his parents was worse than Pelam could bear. Despite the seductive nature of the spirit’s offer, he eventually decided to decline—politely, of course.

The look of disappointment on the spirit’s face when he told her nearly broke his heart.

Pelam turned to leave the clearing, mentally backtracking the path he had taken to reach it, but before he entered the forest beyond, he wanted one final look at the beautiful woman.

Turning around, he saw that she had followed him to the edge of the meadow. Translucent in the golden afternoon light of the sun, she hovered silently in the air, a shimmering cloud of alder leaves floating toward him.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I really don’t have time to play tonight.”

Then, an idea entered his mind.

“You could come with me!” he said. “You could stay in our barn, and we could play tomorrow instead!”

The spirit smiled at him, sweet and innocent, happy to have been invited into Pelam’s home. Together, they followed the path back to the village, he jumping between the rocks and logs of the forest floor, pretending to be the deer, and she floating behind him, softly singing whimsical songs. Eventually, they reached Cloverheart, and Pelam showed the spirit into their small barn. Wanting the beautiful woman to have a pleasant stay, he directed her to the stall next to where they kept their ewe and two lambs, hoping the pretty animals would keep the spirit warm and in good company until morning.

In the dark hours of the night, when everyone in the village was asleep, the alder spirit had taken full advantage of the invitation into the Gathór home. When the cold, pale light of the moon began to shine through the barn windows, the spirit started to torment the ewe, whispering dreadful thoughts into its simple mind.

The next morning, when Pelam came to the barn to feed the animals, the spirit was already gone. Instead, he found the ewe covered in blood and shrieking in terror, desperately trying to nuzzle life back into her two lambs, which under the influence of the lesser god she had nibbled to death during the night.

That day, he should have learned that all the gods of the world were evil.

Instead, he continued to worship them, as the people of Taeron had done for as long as man could remember. There had not been any temples in his small village, and only the most prominent of the gods had shrines built to them. Nevertheless, Pelam prayed at the shrine of Tolamur every spring when the fields were sown, to Balador before every hunt, and to Patera for healing when he sprained his foot running in the forest or burned his hand playing in Tared’s shop. And the offering of a beautiful red fox he had bloodlet at the shrine of Tila while the animal was still alive surely played its part in getting him that kiss from Orania.

And now, the gods of the world had come to Cloverheart.

The omens had been there, ill omens that had pointed the way to the tragic events that would later unfold in the streets and homes of his place of birth.

Early in the morning, the villagers had awakened to a sound like a thunderclap from a clear sky. Crossing the heavens from west to east, a star, a comet, or perhaps something left behind by the Old Ones, glowed bright as the sun as it burned from horizon to horizon, leaving a thick, dark trail of roiling smoke behind it. Moments later, the sky in the east suddenly brightened like a second sunrise, the light strong enough to cast long shadows across the streets. The silence that followed was broken after only a few minutes when the earth shook and the air reverberated with a rumble so deep it could be felt in the bone.

There had been much discussion among the village elders. Had a star fallen from the sky? Or was this what the old tales spoke of when they mentioned the Fires of the Old Ones, that generations ago destroyed the world and sowed the seeds of the new one? Was this, in fact, the beginning of the end of the world?

They prayed at the shrine of Mardocar, god of strength and patron of the Agerian Empire, for clarification and wisdom, begging him to come to Cloverheart and reveal his truths to the scared villagers.

And Mardocar, true to his form, had listened to their prayers.

If there was one thing no one would ever blame the gods of the world for, it was not listening. They, or at least the lesser spirits working for them and reporting back to their masters, always heard what was in the hearts of men.

Mardocar had listened. And just as he had been asked, he had come to Cloverheart.

At first, the villagers hadn’t known he was there. Suddenly, there was a strange sense of urgency in the air, an excitement none of them had felt before. They began to look at each other with new eyes, seeing things there they had never noticed, and remembering old misdeeds long forgotten and forgiven. Soon, friends turned on friends, brothers on brothers, and mothers on daughters.

When the first drop of blood was spilled, Mardocar delighted in the carnage, reveling in his power to entice men to take the lives of fellow men.

As chaos and madness spread from building to building, those who had not yet been affected gathered in fear at the shrine of Patera. Unable to stand up to the god of strength themselves, the villagers begged the god of healing to intervene on their behalf.

Two farmers brought a goat to the shrine, a beautiful black and white doe, which they eviscerated in Patera’s name. While the poor animal screamed in terror, they let its deep red blood fill the bronze altar bowl while they pleaded with their god to come to their help and stop Mardocar’s madness. Eventually, the altar bowl overflowed, the goat went silent, and its blood, still warm, dripped slowly to the ground, seeping into the black soil like living poison.

And Patera heard their prayers.

She appeared in the air over her shrine, larger than life and shining bright as the sun, her beauty indescribable and transcending the imaginations of even the lewdest of men.

Patera, god of healing, clapped her hands in delight, laughing maniacally while Mardocar tormented the innocent men, women, and children of Cloverheart, drunk on their fear and pain.

Three hours later, the village of his birth had been reduced to burning ashes, and his family—mother, father, and two sisters—were dead, slain by their own neighbors while the gods of the world cheered them on.

Now alone, with no one to turn to, Pelam had fled into the wilderness.

He stood on top of a high cliff in the forest above his village, overlooking the burning remains of his childhood below. The numbness he had first felt in the immediate aftermath of the carnage was starting to give way to hate. Hate and anger.

With tears flowing down his cheeks, he shouted his desperation into the void, resolving to bring vengeance upon the gods.

“I am Pelam Gathór,” he cried, his voice echoing across the dark forest. “I am the son of Abner and Claretta. Hear me, oh gods of the world, and despair. Before my life ends, I vow I will walk through the Lion’s Gate in Terynia and slaughter every one of your priestesses, just like you have slaughtered my mother, my father, and my sisters. Woe to you, Mardocar, god of strength and genocide. Woe to you, Patera, god of healing and torture.”

Author's Note

Thank you for reading Echoes of Fallen Gods!

This novel is 43 chapters long, with new installments posted twice each week. Perhaps you’d be interested in reading some of my other stories while you wait for the next update?

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