The Seal of Falaurin

The continent of Falaurin once thrived with Vaachis, a race from across the ocean, a benevolent people who enriched the culture of the native humans.

          Yet in their homeland of Celadiel, they conducted reckless experiments with arcane powers. It was not long until they overstepped their bounds. A massive puncture hole between dimensions spilled a torrent of energy across Celadiel which corrupted millions. A brutal war erupted.

          In Falaurin, the greatest paragons of the era held council. Combining their strength, they forged the Seal of Falaurin, an infallible ward that allowed none to enter Falaurin and none to depart, safeguarding themselves from the savage abominations spawned on Celadiel.

          The few thousand Vaachis remaining on Falaurin were marooned, imprisoned in a foreign land and unable to return to the aid of their kin. They viewed their hosts as traitors and cowards, and a rift grew between them until the Vaachis dwindled into obscurity.

          But they have never stopped looking for a way home.

                                                                           * * *

                                                 Chapter One: The Taint of Chattismar

                                                                              1

Soldiers fanned out through the streets of Chattismar. The purge had begun.

          Jyslan was shaken from the heavy coils of sleep by a loud hammering on her front door. She murmured something to her husband and reached over to rouse him, only to find his side of the bed empty—and untouched. He had not retired at all that night. The discovery startled her out of her lethargy. She disentangled herself from the clinging sheets and stumbled over to the window. The windows in the restaurants and hotels lining the street were dark. It was past one o’clock.

          Again, the rapping on the door, this time quicker and more impatient. Jyslan sighed, slipped into a nightgown and ambled into the hallway while sweeping back her hair. She decided to wake Maviance and have him accompany her downstairs, but to her surprise found him already waiting outside her door, looking expectant.

          “Did Hedretti come home tonight?” she asked. Maviance shook his head. His eyes were lively and bright, as if he had never been asleep.

          More thundering tolled from the door with the promise of force.

          “This is Captain Gattore of the city guard,” cried a rough voice. “Answer at once.”

          Jyslan shot Maviance a worried glance before hurrying down the stairs into the foyer. She lit one of the oil lamps on the wall.

          “Be wary,” Maviance said quietly from behind.

          A cold draught sighed into the house as she pulled open the door. A tall, bearded soldier flanked by five others appeared.

          “Good evening, Mrs. Aibennar. I am Captain Gattore,” he said with a shallow bow.

          Jyslan muttered something inaudible and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

          “I am sorry to have disturbed you at such an early hour,” Gattore said in a pretense of courtesy. “My orders are to escort you to the Council Ganglion.”

          Her first impulse was to comply. She pushed it back irritably.

          “Show me your identification,” Jyslan demanded. A scowl flashed across his face and was gone. He donned a transparent smile and drew out a badge of the city guard and a small card listing his details. She did not even bother to look at them. Gattore’s lips twitched.

          “Why am I to be taken to the Ganglion?” she asked.

          The Captain’s eyes automatically fell upon her belly, swollen with pregnancy. Alarm bells howled in her brain. Nothing could have struck her so threateningly. He looked away quickly, but by then it was too late.

          “The Adjudicator has requested your audience,” Gattore fumbled. The excuse was not sufficient. Jyslan edged backwards and Gattore’s face darkened. His charade ended. Without another moment’s hesitation the civil façade fell away like a mask and he stormed through the doorway, tailed by the others.

          “Maviance!” Jyslan shouted, staggering backward.

          “Leave her be,” the old man said. Gattore bore him the same disdainful look he would a child, his advance unrelenting.

          The lamp beside him suddenly exploded in a shower of burning oil and glass. He cursed and veered aside, escaping the most serious harm, but the man behind him was not so fortunate. He screamed and clawed at his face as it was cooked by scathing oil. Gattore pressed forward, too absorbed to realize what was happening. A table seemed to hurl itself at him from beside the wall, and though he thrust it aside with his hands it struck at him again like a ravenous hawk. He cleaved it in half with his sword. The two halves flew aside and dropped innocuously to the floor.

          It was then that understanding struck him like a blow. The old man had been behind the lamp and table. He must be a paragon! And not just any paragon—Gattore suddenly recognized the name the woman had used. Maviance!

          Gattore hesitated, but his sense of duty pressed him on. He lifted his sword, the old man right in front of him--

          Jyslan suddenly hurled a vase at his skull. He collapsed in a shower of broken ceramics, unconscious.

          Moments later Gattore was already wrestling through the murk of his concussion, fighting as viciously as he ever did to regain consciousness, catching glimpses of the futile melee. His ears rang with cries of pain and shock. The men were tossed about by unseen hands, trying in vain to battle the invisible force the old man was wielding against them. One soldier, poised for the killing blow, burst into flame. It was that nightmare more than anything that roused him.

          The next clear thing he saw was Jyslan, standing over him.

          “Go back to sleep,” she said venomously, bludgeoning him with a table leg. Once more his world went dark.

          Maviance sat heavily down upon the stair, sweating and panting with exhaustion. The foray had cost him dearly, especially the exertion of setting one of the guardsmen aflame. There was little power for him to draw on in Chattismar. His face was haggard, his limbs heavy. His lungs burned with every breath.

          “You look terrible,” Jyslan said, not without compassion. He grunted, not having the breath to speak. Jyslan went to the kitchen to retrieve a wet handtowel and some spiced wine. Shortly after she returned and passed him a handtowel and a glass filled with dark purple wine. One of the soldiers groaning on the floor caught her attention.

          “What are we going to do about them?”

          “I have placed a binding of air on them, it will last a few hours.”

          “And we will be gone by then, won’t we?” she said slowly. Maviance wiped his forehead and drained a mouthful of wine.

          “Why do you think that?” he said, frowning at the presumption.

          An uncertain smile appeared on her face. “I’m not an idiot, Maviance. The mother in me—and there’s a lot—knows that I can’t stay here anymore. Why would they only come for me once?”

          “Yes,” Maviance sighed. “These men were not a group of thugs, they had a purpose, and work for the Council. You must flee.”

          “We,” Jyslan quickly corrected, scorned. She planted her hands on her hips.

          A sad expression appeared on the old paragon’s face. “I cannot devote my time to escorting a refugee—an outlaw now, no doubt.”

          Jyslan mouthed words that were too weak to mature. Her face twisted, betraying the gale of emotions blowing through her, among them panic and surprised hurt. Maviance’s expression of regret only served to amplify her pain. A half-choked sob escaped her lips and she dashed up the stairs to gather what she needed.

          The wails of victims and the clangour of skirmishes rolled through the night as Maviance recuperated on the stair. Jyslan is not the only one, he thought, rubbing his long moustache. Just then he noticed that the ever-vital captain had already reclaimed his awareness. He fixed Maviance with a cold stare.

          “She intends to escape?” Gattore asked. Maviance nodded.

          “I will follow her,” he said. Maviance knew it for a promise. His jaw set. Ever was there the contest between honour and friendship. But Maviance chose as he had so many times before, heedless of love: honour. He would let helpless Gattore live. His reputation and more bound him to that path.

          “Why does the Council want her?” Maviance asked.

          “It will be in all the newspapers today,” Gattore said. “The Council has issued a decree that all pregnant women in Chattismar are to be quarantined.”

          “Quarantined? All of them?” Maviance tweaked his moustache, his features affecting an austere thoughtfulness. “For what reason?”

          Gattore fixed him with a foreboding stare. “Their children are demons.”