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Those Left Behind
Charlon
A fallen priest named his gods and prayed to each.
Syrek. Lasreen. Meira. Pryan. Immor. Tiber.
No sound came from his lips, but that didn’t matter much. The gods would hear him either way.But will they choose to listen?
During his days in the church, Charlie used to wonder if the gods were real. If the realms beyond Allward still existed, waiting on the other side of a closed door.
By now, he knew the answer. He was near sick with it.
The gods are real, and the distant realms are here.
Meer in the desert, its Spindle flooding the oasis. The Ashlands at the temple, a corpse army marching from its depths.
And now, Infyrna, burning up the city before his eyes.
Cursed flame leapt against a black sky, even as a blizzard roared against the smoke. The Burning Realm consumed the city of Gidastern, and threatened to consume their army too.
Charlie watched with the rest of their bedraggled host, every warrior horrified and staring. Elder and mortal, Jydi raider and Treckish soldier.And the Companions too. They all wore the same fear on their faces.
But it did not stop them from charging forward, their battle cry echoing through the smoke and falling snow.
All rode toward the city, the Spindle, and the flames of hell itself.
All but Charlie.
He shifted in the saddle, more comfortable on his horse than he once was. Still, his body ached, and his head pounded. He wished for the relief of tears.Would they freeze or boil,he wondered, watching as all the world seemed to break apart.
The blizzard, the burning. The battle cry of Elder and Jydi alike. Immortal arrows twanged and Treckish steel rattled. Two hundred horses pounded across the barren field, charging for the flaming gates of Gidastern.
Charlie wanted to shut his eyes but could not.
I owe them this much. If I cannot fight, I can watch them go.
His breath caught.
I can watch them die.
“Gods forgive me,” he murmured.
His saddlebag of quills and ink felt heavy at his side. They were his weapons more than anything else. And in this moment, they were utterly useless.
So he returned to the only weapon left to him.
This prayer came slowly, from the forgotten corners of another life.
Before that hole in Adira. Before I defied every kingdom of the Ward, and made a ruin of my future.
As he recited the words, memories flashed, sharp as knives. His workshop beneath the Priest’s Hand. The smell of parchment in the dank stone room. The feel of a gallows rope around his neck. The warmth of a handlaid against his face, Garion’s calluses as familiar as anything in the realm. Charlie’s mind lingered on Garion, and their last meeting. It still stung, a wound never fully healed.
“Fyriad the Redeemer,” he continued, naming the god of Infyrna. “May your fires cleanse us and burn evil from this world.”
The prayer tasted wrong in his mouth. But it was something, at the very least. Something he could do for his friends. For the realm.
