Guardian

by P B Hughes

  Gregory turned toward the cave to see Nera, her blonde bushy hair flying wildly about her, a snarl on her face reminiscent of an angry badger. She looked over to Jelani and her eyes flashed like two spheres of gold. She thrust her staff forward with two hands. Another bolt tore the air in two, pinning the writhing ogre against the earthen wall.

  “We are the Guardians of the Imperial Order,” she said, stalking forward as the monster roared in pain. “Here to purge the world of evil. That means you, you putrid pot of cow snot!”

  She stopped and blew a strand of hair out of her face. Relief flooded Gregory as he caught sight of Martha standing behind Nera. He couldn’t help but smile. She darted out from the cave toward the fallen Jelani.

  But where’s Sir Weston? he thought, his heart falling into his stomach.

  “Who,” said the two-eyed head, “who released you? Was it B-Bobrock?”

  “Gholard, you bloody fool,” Bobrock replied, slick head steaming. “You’d have seen if I did.”

  The ogre planted his hands and struggled to stand. Nera shot another bolt into its chest.

  “Stay down,” Nera cried, pulling back her staff. “Now answer my questions and your death will be quick. Otherwise,” she sent a smaller bolt flying at them from the palm of her hand. “I can do this all day.”

  Bobrock moaned. His big eye was squeezed tightly shut. Gholard glowered at Nera but said nothing.

  Gregory wasn’t sure what Nera was driving at, but he walked over to her side, staff readied. “You can’t trust them, Nera,” he said. “Just end them and be done with it.”

  “There are some things I want to know,” she replied, not taking her eyes off the beast. “Tell me, who is your master? Is it Specula Greavus?”

  Cruel smiles slithered over its pained faces, as if thoughts of its master were enough to make it forget its agony. Gholard laughed, deep and throaty, then began to hack while his brother remained silent.

  “Our master is no mere man,” said Gholard when the fit passed.

  “Then who is he?” she said, pointing her staff with both hands. “Don’t make me ask again.”

  Gholard’s brow sagged and he inhaled, nostrils flaring as he studied Nera with loathing. “He is splendor and shadow.”

  “Perfection,” continued Bobrock, “and power. He comes to bind your world in chains.”

  “With a scepter of bone and blight he reigns.”

  “Fear and death pass in his maraud.”

  Gholard paused, black blood oozing down from the corner of his mouth. “Our master is the Anti-god.”

  A distant whirring sound filled the air. In a moment the sky darkened, and then turned black with the wings of crows, cawing and diving, eyes ablaze. Gholard and Bobrock’s mocking laughter filled the air, and the birds swirled around Nera like a cyclone. The attack caught her off guard, and she covered her eyes with her arm, letting out a wounded cry as they tore at her with their claws and beaks. Gregory aimed his staff, ready to incinerate the vile things, but stopped for fear of harming his friend. From the corner of his eye, he saw the ogre stand, fog building in the backs of its throats.

  Gregory turned his staff on the ogre, engulfing it in a whirl of flames. He felt his energy wane—he couldn’t keep using his powers at the same level of intensity or he’d pass out.

  I have to, he thought, remembering the ogre’s hide was not like that of a man—it was far thicker, able to withstand tremendous punishment. I have to finish him.

  Nera fell to her knees and let out a scream. Arms of lightning exploded from her body reducing hundreds of crows to ashes. One of the bolts struck Gregory in the leg, knocking him over. Swells of pain coursed through him as he clenched his jaw, his eyes set on the ogre. The flames had done their work; the ogre’s pink skin was scorched black and red. But Gregory knew that it wasn’t enough. The beast rose up on his haunches and turned its hate-filled eyes on Gregory.

  “Forget what the Master says,” Gholard croaked. “We feast on man flesh tonight.”

  “Enough,” cried Sir Weston, standing at the mouth of the cave, sword raised. “Your end is nigh, wretched creature!” He sprang forward, his breastplate glinting in the sunlight.

  The ogre twins twitched as remnants of Nera’s electricity danced through its body. “I hate—” bellowed Bobrock “—hate knights!”

  Sir Weston slid on his knees beneath a swipe of the ogre’s fist, gripping his sword with both hands. Up he jumped and with one powerful motion he swung, cleaving both heads off the corpulent body and into the gunk-filled creek.

  The knight stood over the ogre’s corpse, his sandy hair disheveled and his chest heaving. “To the crows be your carcass,” he said, spitting. He turned to Nera. “I could have done that sooner if you had released me. What possessed you to leave me tethered?”

  “We couldn’t risk it,” she sputtered, rising up from the ground. Red gashes covered her face and neck, but otherwise she seemed unhurt. “They were trying to capture us but they were going to kill you. Best to leave you there and come back when we’d finished the thing.”

  “Bah,” Sir Weston protested. “My job is to protect you, not the other way around. I had to roll across that filthy cave floor. If my sword hadn’t been left out I might never have severed my bonds.”

  “Well, it worked out,” Nera replied. “And it looks like you won the day.” She gave the ogre’s heads a sour look.

  Sir Weston tapped his neck. “The ogre’s weak spot. The flesh around their necks is as soft as a man’s.”

  Martha slid to Gregory’s side. “Be still,” she said. A fine mist poured out of her staff onto his leg. Beads of sweat covered her forehead; dark circles hung beneath her chestnut eyes. And though her braid looked like an untidy brown haystack, Gregory thought her as beautiful as he had ever seen her.

  “I’m glad you’re safe,” he whispered, reaching out and touching her hand.

  She gave him a small smile. “I’m glad you’re safe, too.”

  “What I want to know is,” said Nera, flopping onto the ground next to them with a grunt, “who is this ‘Anti-god’ they spoke of. Is it Nahash?”

  “He is one far greater than a Cythe,” said Jelani’s voice. He stood to their right, his expression grim. “I fear he is none other than Vut’Al Choshek himself. It is he who likely gave the ogre its unusual power. A power called the Nosfertu.”

  Gregory felt a shudder pass through him at the name. He had heard tales of the fabled Lord of Darkness, but had always dismissed them as silly myths. But even if the legends were true, Vut’Al Choshek was dead—defeated by the ancient Guardians.

  “So you’re saying the stories about Vut’Al Choshek are real?” he asked.

  “To my people they were never just stories, but history. In Orsidia, people scoff at the notion. Hence why I rarely speak of my beliefs. It is unpleasant to be mocked.”

  Nera chimed in: “Do your people’s stories say anything about Vut’Al Whatever returning and dolling out this shadow power? Or could the ogres have been born with the power inside of them, just like we were born with Miraclism?”

  Jelani pondered the question with a frown. “Whether Vut’Al Choshek gave them their power long ago or recently, I could not tell you. I discussed the question at length with Mordecai. He denied the Dark Lord’s return. But I believe we must consider the possibility. At the very least, with the release of the Nosfertu, it seems all creatures that possess the dark ability have amplified power.”

  “You mean to tell me,” Gregory said, wincing as Martha continued to heal his leg, “that it’s not just the Cythes who can use the Nosfertu? I mean, what if the ogre was using some other sort of power we don’t know about?”

  Jelani pointed to the where the eye had been painted in the middle of the tree. “You have seen the eyes, Gregory. Seeing Eyes are a way for the ogres to spy upon intruders. When I was a child, my tribe did battle with ogres. Those eyes littered their territories. But never…never did the warriors in my tribe do battle with one a
s mighty as the ogre we fought today. And never has an ogre been able to spew black smog from the depths of its belly. The ogre we fought today was no ordinary bumbling brute, but well-spoken and well-versed in the dark arts. I believe it was not always so. I believe it was slowly being transformed into a mage by its master using the Nosfertu.”

  “It’s as if the myths we were told at our bedside have come to life,” said Nera, shaking her head. “A year ago, I would have been one of the people laughing at you for believing in something like the Nosfertu.”

  “How easily we forget,” said Sir Weston as he cleaned blood off his blade. “It is when you cease to believe your foe exists that you are most vulnerable.”

  Gregory dug his fingers into the dirt, fear gripping him. At every turn, their enemies seemed to grow in power while they diminished.

  Martha sat back, pulling her staff away from Gregory’s leg. “It’s nearly done,” she said lightly. “I…I just don’t know if I have the energy to continue.”

  “That’s fine,” said Gregory, flexing his toes. “It barely hurts now.”

  “I want to get out of here,” said Martha. “Please, let’s just leave right now.”

  “Not yet,” Jelani replied. “We must examine the creature’s cave. There might be something of value, or better still, information we could gather.”

  “We at least need our supplies,” said Nera, lifting her exhausted body off the ground. “They’re still in the cave.”

  “I’m with you, my lady,” said Sir Weston. His blade was now perfectly clean. “At the very least, we need to retrieve the Chimaroo time-bomb.”

  Gregory stood, bracing himself with his staff. He was wobbly at first but quickly regained his bearings. “Right. Let’s get this over with.”

  When they entered the cave, and Gregory saw the animal carcasses strewn across the cave floor, he could not contain his disgust. Their own horses were half-eaten, and he could not bring himself to look at them. He hurried to the wall and emptied the contents of his stomach.

  “Gregoryyy,” whispered a voice in his ear.

  “All right,” snapped Gregory, standing upright. “It’s not funny anymore. Nera is that you?”

  “Is what me?” she asked, annoyed.

  “Is it you who keeps saying my name?”

  “What are you talking about, Gregory?”

  “It’s gone,” huffed Sir Weston, interrupting them as he rifled through his pack. “All of it is gone.”

  “What’s gone?” asked Martha. “The time bomb?”

  “No—our gold. The time-bomb is still in its case, but the gold is missing.”

  Gregory wiped his mouth, dismissing the whispers as a bad joke. “Maybe they hid it,” he said. “Have you searched the rest of the cave?” He scanned the room as the words left him: a fire pit, bones, carcasses—nothing more. Not even a barrel or pot.

  “Aye,” Sir Weston replied. “And I doubt the creature could fit anything inside its loincloth.”

  “Do we really need the gold?” asked Martha, clearly ready to leave.

  “Not if you wish proceed on foot,” Sir Weston said, nudging a pile of bones with the end of his toe. “Which will extend our journey by weeks.”

  “In other words,” said Nera, “we have to find it. So let’s get looking.”

  “It couldn’t have gone far,” said Gregory, thinking hard. “Maybe they hid it in the walls. I don’t know; a hole in the floor or something.”

  That seemed to spark something in Jelani’s mind. “Now that is an idea,” he said, kneeling. “Give me a moment.” He placed his broad hand on the cave floor and closed his eyes.

  Gregory felt the floor rumble ever so slightly.

  Jelani waited a moment, and then opened his eyes, a frown etching deep on his mouth. “It would appear there is more to this ogre’s den than meets the eye,” he said, standing. He walked to the very back of the cave and placed his palm on the smooth surface of the wall. “There is a door here.”

  “Well?” said Nera. “Open it.”

  “It appears to be locked with some sort of seal,” Jelani said. “Fortunately, there are other ways to open doors of stone.” He pushed forward against the wall, cracks of perfect rectangles splitting through the rock. Slowly, Jelani backed up and the doors slid open. “Gregory, if you would be so kind.”

  Gregory craned his neck, but all he could see was blackness. “I don’t know about this. What if something’s down there?”

  “I think that’s the point,” Nera quipped. “And likely, it’s our gold.”

  Gregory stepped forward and held up his hand, a fireball blooming before him. Inside the doors lay a staircase, ceilings high and steps sweeping, with no end in sight. “Follow me then, boys and girls,” he said.

  The hollow tap of their boots on the steps reverberated as they descended deeper and deeper down the staircase. Eventually, Gregory saw the foot of the stairs down below. He held up his staff for his friends to halt.

  “If anything is down there I don’t want it to see us coming,” he said, extinguishing his flame. “I’ll scout ahead.”

  He placed his hand on the side of the wall and felt his way to the bottom of the stairs. Cold air blew against him from what seemed to be a broad entryway. He edged forward and slowly stepped through.

  He paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dense blackness. There were no sounds, no movements he could discern.

  Well, he thought, nothing’s eaten me yet. Here we go.

  He raised his palm and lit a fireball. It took time for his eyes to adjust, and he was glad he hadn’t walked any farther. He stood on a platform with a steep drop-off ahead of him, falling into a black cavern. To his left another staircase led downward. He spotted a torch in a sconce on the wall and held his flame against it. The torch lit with a pop, followed by a dozen more throughout the expanse.

  The cavern came to life in the light, and the view took Gregory’s breath away. Before him blossomed a sea of treasure piled high to the ceiling. Glistening gold coins, sparkling diamonds, rubies, crowns, and scepters. He had never seen anything so magnificent, so awe-inspiring. In a trance, he stepped down the staircase. He arrived at the foot of the glorious mountain, soaking it in. It was enough to make even the richest of kings weak in the knees.

  Something caught his eye—a human skull peaked out from the mound, several yards away. It was odd to see something so morbid in the midst of such beauty. He wanted to hide it; it was spoiling the view. He clambered up the mountain of coins, sending them scattering down below. Just as he reached out to take hold of the skull, he paused. Around the pale forehead was a golden circlet with a solitary black jewel fixed in the middle. It seemed strangely familiar; he knew he’d seen it before. For a long while he stared at it, trying in vain to recall where.

  It was Martha’s voice that brought him back to reality. “Gregory,” she said, “is everything okay?”

  “Yes,” he cried, remembering his friends. He reached down, grabbed a fistful of gold, and tossed it in the air. “I’ve never been better—come, come quickly! You won’t believe what I’ve found!”

  Footsteps hurried down through the tunnel and then came up short. His friends let out collective gasps at the sight.

  “By the Emperor’s ghost,” said Sir Weston, placing a hand on his forehead. “It would appear you’ve found our gold.”

  Gregory forgot the skull, overcome by his good fortune. Laughter bubbled inside of him and echoed through the cavernous room. “Can you believe it?” he exclaimed, turning and falling backward onto the mountain of gold (which hurt more than he thought it would; but he didn’t care.) “We’re rich. The richest in all of Orsidia!” He waved his arms and legs and let the treasure pour over him.

  Thoughts of the gold promised to his family from the Irachnian traitors filled his mind—a mere fistful from this pile would be twice what was pledged them.

  “There’s more here than in the royal treasury, I’d wager,” said Sir Weston.

  “
Perhaps,” said Jelani, heading down the stairs. “Perhaps not.” He stopped at the edge of the treasure, but he did not look quite as excited as Gregory expected.

  “We could run away, you know,” said Gregory, sitting up. “Take what we need and go across the sea—start anew. Away from this war, away from all these responsibilities. We’ll be safe now. No one can touch us.” There was never a more beautiful idea to form inside his head. Since the massacre, he’d felt as if death was staring him in the face every day. But now there was a chance to escape. No more fighting; no more burden to fix the problems of their forefathers. He let out a whoop. “We’re rich, ladies and gentlemen—stinking, filthy rich!”

  “Be careful, Fire-Thrower,” Jelani snapped. “This gold has been acquired through ill-gotten means.”

  “So what?” said Gregory, rising. “We’ll use it for good.”

  “It may be cursed.”

  Gregory couldn’t help but chuckle. “Don’t tell me you still believe in curses. Come on Jelani, we’re practically grown.”

  “You did not believe in the Nosfertu. To you, it has been a myth for thousands of years. But here we are.”

  “So what are you trying to say? That we can’t take any of the treasure because there might be a curse?”

  Jelani raised an eyebrow. “We should take what is ours and no more.”

  “Are you kidding me?” said Gregory. It was as if all of his dreams had come true in an instant, and in another they were stolen from him. “Jelani, listen to yourself. We killed the ogre twins, and now we’ve been given—no, we’ve been blessed with a mountain of gold as a reward. How can you possibly say no to that?”

  “My mother,” said Jelani, “is a holy woman. She taught me of the ogre’s power when I was a child. I listened and listened well. She spoke of ogres’ gluttony and greed. They curse their plunder. If greed should befoul one who lusts upon their treasures, and should they take more than what is theirs, a curse shall fall upon their head. True or not, with the release of the Nosfertu, evils may have come to life that did not exist in the past.”

  Gregory could not believe his ears. Anger stirred within him as he tried to digest what Jelani told him. “So we just have to leave it here?”