Dreams of Jupiter

A Forge of Men

A/N: Final round entry for the Sci-fi Smackdown 8, Sword and Planet theme, using lines from the Guano Apes' song, Break the Line, pictures 1,2,4 and 8, and quotes 1,2,7,8, and 9, bolded for ease of discovery.

Feron sighed as he slowly lifted his eyes from the dusty marble floor to gaze at the statue in front of him. Silently it stared back, one of four brooding figures in the shape of cloaked men, towering over him in their stony alcoves. In their right hands each held a staff with a glowing blade of red light on its top end, their left hands extended as if reaching into the future.

'Yet, there no longer is a future here," Feron thought as his eyes looked to the blade, which flickered uneasily in the chamber's dim space.  Fuelled by crystals crafted by a technology long lost, they were supposed to last a thousand years in silent tribute to the great kings that had forged an empire that spanned the stars.

Now all they had left was their fading legacy, dimming like the failing crystals in the blades, their empire fallen and their might forgotten.

"Did you imagine it would end like this?" he asked the figure in a low voice. "Did you think your children would disappear into the dust, destroyed by their enemies and forgotten by Time itself? Did you ever wonder what would befall your heirs as you were carving your empire from the dark stone of space?"

A flicker of frustration went through him as the silence mocked his poignant question.

"Answer me, oh great king of the past," he shouted, surging back to his feet from where he had been kneeling in thoughtful contemplation.

"Answer me!"

"My lord." The lean figure slipped out of the shadows to approach, robes whispering as they brushed against the floor's weathered stone.

"I was not to be disturbed, priest," Feron tautly hissed, glancing over his shoulder at the figure's approach. The robed figure immediately paused and bowed low.

"Forgiveness, my lord, but the High Sorcerer Steaphan sends word."

"Steaphan?" Feron frowned as he turned to face the robed figure. "He had agreed to watch the eastern marches and the approach to Caer Anoth."

"That he had, my lord. And he wishes to convey that he has not broken your agreement."

Feron felt a brow rise despite himself.

"Oh? You speak for the sorceror now, priest?" he asked, frowning. "Or are you a mere messenger?"

If the robed priest was bothered by Feron's tone, he didn't show it, choosing instead to bow once more. Then he was speaking with a voice entirely not his own while still bowed.

"An unwitting one, Feron," the new voice said, powerful and filled with a note of command. A slight smile touched Feron's face at hearing it.

"Ah, there you are, Steaphan," he said before the smile disappeared. "Best be careful with your raven. The Priory isn't among your greatest supporters. You mishandle this one and they'll start a new crusade against you."

"Let them," the voice offhandedly said as the priest finally straightened up. "It's not like the last two were that successful."

The smile returned briefly at that. Then:

"So, you bring word of Caer Anoth, Steaphan. But why use this priest? Why not send one of your own apprentices? Or better yet, come yourself to the capital? You know how much I enjoy listening to your stories of your journeys to other worlds and dimensions with your magic."

"Because, my lord, I am currently engaged in defending Anoth's main tower," Steaphan said, all trace of levity abruptly gone from the powerful voice.

Feron's eyes flew wide. The main tower?? But that was where Ceana was staying, ...

"From who ...?" he began to ask. Only to fall silent as the answer came to him.

"Korsahg."

"Indeed," Steaphan grimly confirmed. "Somehow the Witch Lord has learned not only Ceana's location, but her relationship to you."

"By the Abyss!" Feron snarled. "You have to get her out of there, Steaphan. Jump her to Caer Taphael, or to Tor Dennat. She can't fall into his hands, ..."

Abruptly the priest jerked, then spun to his right.

"Korsahg." Steaphan's voice was cold and filled with contempt as he spoke to somebody unseen to Feron, somebody physically where he was in distant Anoth.

"So confident in your victory here that you come yourself?"  There was a pause, then: "I, of course, won't let you take her."  The priest gestured, sweeping motions with his hands that were both intricate and powerful in their short, curved arcs.

"You can throw a thousand shadow acolytes at me, it makes no difference," Steaphan's voice grated even as the priest continued to gesture. "Your cursed moon metal has no effect on my magic."

Feron stared in shock as the priest continued to gesture, the motions still smooth and economical even as he could hear the strain building in Steaphan's voice. Was he actually witnessing his old friend holding off the Witch Lord's attack?

Suddenly the priest staggered forward as if struck from behind.

"What, ...? Steaphan's voice was a croak of pain. "A shadowblade? A coward's attack!" Then he was looking over at a stunned Feron and for a moment, he could actually see the sorceror's eyes looking out at him from beneath the priest's cowl.

"I have fallen, old friend. Ceana is, ..." The voice trailed off before the priest slumped to the ground, unconscious.

"No," Feron whispered, his voice stolen by pain that sent icy shards through his heart and soul. He took a half step towards the fallen priest before dropping to his knees, the pain finally stealing his strength.

"Ceana, ... my daughter, ..."