“All went as it was prescribed for millennia, until one day a star fell from the sky into the sea, and its impact ruptured the Vault, allowing many of the F’dor that had been imprisoned there, biding their time in futile dreams of destruction, to escape to the upworld, and take their place among the unsuspecting human population that had evolved from those Firstborn and Elder races. And so the destructive element was free.”
Achmed paused in his diatribe. The Archons were barely breathing, probably from the combined shock of seeing his face for the first time and hearing more words spoken together than he had uttered since coming to Ylorc four years before. He willed himself to be calmer, to make his voice less harsh.
“Those beings still live, some of them imprisoned in the remade Vault, others free, hiding in broad daylight, their poisonous, parasitic spirits clinging invisibly to a human host. They are almost impossible to discern from the rest of the mass of human flesh that walks the world. And those that are upworld want but one thing: to free their kin in the Vault from their imprisonment, so that together they can satisfy the primal longing that consumes their race—the hunger for destruction, for annihilation, for the obliteration of all life, not just in this world, but beyond it. They seek a return to utter Void, even at the cost of their own existence. And their presence is felt in the tides of the universe, in war, in conquest, in murder, in betrayal. In short, in the ways of men.
“And what they ultimately seek—that is the last secret. I tell it to you now. A prophecy long ago told of a Sleeping Child—three such children, actually. Do you know this prophecy, Harran?”
The Loremistress nodded, closed her eyes, and intoned the words in a soft, toneless voice.
Achmed nodded as Harran fell silent. “The first child in the prophecy is sheltered within these very mountains,” he said gravely, watching the faces of the Archons, their eyes glittering in the darkness. “She is an Earthchild, a being made of Living Stone, left over from when the world was born. For all I know she may even be the last of this race, which the dragons fashioned out of elemental earth. The ribs of her body are made of the same Living Stone that comprises the Vault—and would thereby act as a key to it were she to fall into the hands of the F’dor. And they know she is here.”
An audible shudder arose from the assemblage. Achmed glanced at Grunthor, whose face remained impassive. The Bolg king exhaled, then continued.
“The second Child mentioned in the prophecy is the star that fell millennia ago into the sea on the other side of the world, the same star that shattered the Vault. That burning star, which slept beneath the sea for thousands of years, rose and consumed the Island of Serendair in fiery cataclysm centuries ago. And for all the destruction that ensued, for all the lives that were taken, she brought about far less damage than the other two could.” The Bolg king fell silent, the noise in the tunnel disappearing with the sound of his voice.
Finally Omet spoke. “And the third, sire? The eldest?”
The Bolg king remained quiet for a long time. Finally he spoke, and when he did, his voice was soft.
“Long ago, at the beginning of Time, when there were none on the Earth but the five Firstborn races, the F’dor stole something from the dragons—from the Progenitor of the race, the eldest of all wyrms. It was an egg. They took this nascent dragon, this unborn wyrm, which had in its blood all the elements, and tainted it, made it impure, though it was kept in a state of stasis, allowed to grow until it was part of the very fabric of the world. Deeper even than the Vault, lies the last Sleeping Child; a beast of unimaginable size, slumbering in cold downworld caverns, waiting for its name to be called, to be summoned to life, as all dragons must be in order to hatch. It has grown thus, and remained asleep, because when the F’dor were imprisoned in the Vault, all the heat of their evil fire was taken with them. But should they be freed, they will immediately call it to life—and it will awaken.
“And it will consume the world.”
The king stood a little straighter, trying to avoid noticing the glances that were being exchanged in the Hand.
“I fled from the grip of an upworld F’dor more than a thousand years ago, because in the course of my servitude I looked across the threshold of the Vault itself. And seeing what was inside caused me to understand that there are things worse than death, worse than exile, worse than endless torture. And seeing that, knowing that, I came to understand why the Dhracian blood in my veins screams for the death of all F’dor, why I must hunt down whatever hint of their foul stench I catch on the wind, to rid the Earth of each and every one that I can find. It is a calling that surpasses all other duties. And while I am a hunter, I am also now a guardian—the guardian of the Earthchild. The guardian of the Bolg. And, in a hideously ironic sense, I am the very guardian of the Earth. Trained and experienced as a killer, an assassin, a dealer in a catalogue of death that once held an entire continent in fear, I am now the one who has the ultimate responsibility for guarding Life, and possibly the Afterlife, for the F’dor hate them both, and seek to snuff both of them out if they can.
“So, my involuntary children, while there are some who believe that age will never take me, that I can die, but not by the hand of Time, there is a legacy that I must not only leave to you, but must enlist you in, beginning now, as you come into adulthood. I can no longer carry this mantel alone. Grunthor has always been my aide in this, but he cannot do it alone, either. I do not know what direct power the F’dor have outside the Vault, how many demonic spirits are abiding in human hosts, but I can see their influence growing in the hearts of men, that longing for destruction rising beyond the mountains where we reign. You will stand with me—like me, your destiny is not a choice that you made, but was made for you. It is as much beyond your control as the beating of your own heart. There is no option, no way of shirking or avoiding it.
“This is the thousand-and-first secret: Your lives will be spent in endless vigil, guarding the Earth, and all that lives on it, and after it, from that which seeks to extinguish it. Your training, your dedication, your wisdom—your very lives—are pledged to hold these mountains, to guard the Earthchild, as I guard her, to be the first, and possibly last, barrier, between the F’dor and the wyrm that sleeps in the heart of the world.”
The Archons nodded one by one in understanding.
The Bolg king lifted his veils back into place.
“But lest you think the task is too onerous to be borne, remember that at least you were born Bolg. If you begin to feel sorry for yourselves, keep in mind that you could have been born human or, far worse, a human Cymrian. Self-pity usually disappears when you consider that could have been your lot.”