Rushing over to the boy, Sebastian took the iron chain from Cenric’s neck and draped it around his own. Awareness of an ancient presence flooded into Sebastian’s consciousness through the stone.
Dragon-master. What are your wishes? The thought pressed into his mind from within the stone. Overhead, he could hear the leathery sound of wings as the dragon circled.
All he wanted was for the dragon to leave. Go away, he thought back. It was pure instinct.
As you command.
Sebastian felt the dragon’s presence recede as it flew off, only to be replace with a younger, more raw feeling. This one was more familiar somehow and very close. Why was it so familiar? He wondered. Then it clicked. Stretch? The little dragon did not answer, but he could feel a spark of recognition through the bond.
His vision blurred and for a moment he could see not just Cenric lying in the sand before him, but also an image of Krystelle facing off against one swordsman. She was down on her knees and her opponent had his sword raised, ready to land a killing blow.
Help her! He commanded the baby dragon. Light exploded in his head and then the world went black.
#
Facing off against the four swordsmen, Krystelle was not optimistic about the odds. Out in the open area amidst the ruins of Cale Uriasz she would be easy pickings for four experienced warriors. She was good, but not this good. Looking into the eyes of the nearest, she could see he knew it too. He motioned to his compatriots to circle round behind her. She needed to draw them away from Sebastian and find cover for herself. At least they were not wearing more than leather armor, having been recently at sea.
Drawing her sword along the sand, she ran toward the closest of the four. Using her forward momentum she swung the sword up as she darted past him, deflecting his counter-move with the ring of steel on steel. Not expecting her to go on the offensive, the sudden movement caught the man off-guard and he skidded to reverse his course, throwing up a curtain of sand.
Krystelle’s move brought her into the warren of ruined buildings and she could hear the shouts of her opponents spreading out to follow. For a few moments she was out of sight, giving her a moment to switch her sword hand and draw a dagger. Stopping to listen, she heard the big swordsmen crashing their way after her. They were big and loud and she would beat them through stealth and cunning.
Dodging around a fallen wall, she pressed up against it in the shadows, waiting for her prey. One of the swordsmen lunged into view and her dagger flew, blossoming in the man’s throat. Dying as he fell backward, he crashed into one building, drawing the other's attention.
“There she is!” said the nearest, running towards her. Backed against the wall, she had little room to maneuver and braced herself to engage with him. As he ranged within a few yards, a sudden blast of flame and heat hauled their attention away from one another and toward the other battle that was taking place. Krystelle recovered first and swung her sword at the man, catching him in his midsection. Two down as much through luck as skill, but at least that evened the odds. Rather than take her chances she darted back into the shadows, seeking her next opponent.
It did not take her long to find them. Having learned from their dead companions, the remaining two swordsmen were staying close together. Two against one were bad odds, but not the worst she had ever faced. She was hopeful that these two would underestimate her skill. She was a ranked member of the Order of Gabirel, and a Swordmaster, having trained for much of her life instead of the son her father had never had.
Once again, she decided that her best chance would be to take them off guard. Stepping out of the shadows, she ran towards the two, sword at the ready to begin the dance. Nearing them, she threw herself to the side and flowed past the first swordsman. Faster than thought, she struck hard. Once…twice…three times. With each blow, she beat back the first of the two. In an instant, she was on to the second, lunging hard.
He parried and lunged back with his own riposte. Up close she could see that this was a veteran of some serious fighting. A scar ran down his face from his right eye to his jaw, giving him an evil look. He was better than she had expected and she got her sword back up just in time. Sensing his advantage he pressed his attack, raining blow after blow down on her. In short order, her arm ached from the successive impacts. She needed to end this.
Maneuvering backward, Krystelle put space between herself and Scarface. The three of them circled for a time, taking stock of each other. She got a closer look at the other swordsman and realized he was young. Probably this was his first battle. She could use that. Feinting towards Scarface she arrested her swing in mid-thrust and caught the young one under his chin, sending him reeling.
At that moment, a trio of lightening bolts exploded from the clear sky leaving Krystelle deafened. Blinking to clear the spots from her eyes, she got her sword up in time to block another blow from Scarface. Down to just the two of them now, the battle entered a new phase as Krystelle and Scarface danced back and forth across the sand. Scarface had size and reach while Krystelle had speed and agility.
Scarface pressed his advantage with a series of blows designed to throw his opponent off her balance. Seeing the endgame approaching, Krystelle sidestepped the attack and launched one of her own. Her legs and thighs were on fire from dodging through the sand. She could not maintain this pace for long. He began a new series of brutal attacks, pounding Krystelle into the ground.
Falling to her knees, it was all Krystelle could do to keep Scarface’s sword from ending it all. Mercifully, he paused in his onslaught, taking a step back. Towering above her he raised his sword, preparing to bring it down for the death blow. Looking up into his eyes, Krystelle saw her death approaching.
His eyes shifted upward, focusing past Krystelle and then the swordsman was stumbling backward. Before it registered, Krystelle felt something fly past her, slamming into the man. It was a dragon, a small one, but it made quick work of the swordsman. Pinning him to the ground, the dragon gripped both shoulders with its claws. Krystelle saw the blood oozing around the claws. The man gave one final scream as the dragon bit down hard.
Frozen, Krystelle watched as the dragon turned toward her. Had it saved her only to make her its next victim? It flopped over to her and nudged her its head, then sat down beside the woman. “Stretch?” said Krystelle, not believing what she was seeing. The dragon nudged her one last time and flew off into the night sky. She sat there in the sand watching the dragon depart before coming back to herself. “Sebastian!”
Breathing hard she ran back toward the center of the ruins where she had left Sebastian to face Cenric. Entering the clearing, she found both laying unconscious in the sand. With a glance for Cenric, she rushed to kneel beside Sebastian and laid her hand on the side of his face. She could feel the warmth in his face and saw his chest move with breath. Relieved, she called out to him trying to get him to waken.
His eyes blinked open, and she helped him into a seated position. “Cenric?” he asked.
“There,” she gestured toward the motionless boy. The Dragonstone lay dormant on his breast, the fire having gone out of both the stone and the fledgling wizard. Far overhead, the dragon let out one final screech and flew away from the island toward its distant home.
“Help me up,” Sebastian said to her. Pulling him to his feet, she draped his arm over her shoulder and wrapped her arm around him. They made their way over to the stricken boy and she helped Sebastian down next to him.
Reaching out, Sebastian took the chain from around Cenric’s neck and laid the Dragonstone to one side. Examining the boy, Sebastian looked up at Krystelle. “He’s alive, but barely.”
“Is that a good thing?” she asked.
“It is. Whatever Sterling Lex did to him, he’s still my friend.”
“Ok, but he also could be dangerous.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take. We’ll bring him with us back to the Dazhberg. Perhaps they can restore him.”
“And just how
do you expect us to do that? Our longboat will not carry us that far.”
“I don’t know yet,” said Sebastian. “I’m sure a solution will present itself in the morning.” He looked over at the Eligius Muliach. “At least we’ve recovered the Dragonstone. I wonder how Sterling Lex got hold of it.”
“I wish I knew. Right now I am more concerned that he has the Chronicles. He can use the book to anoint himself Arch-mage, with all the requisite power.”
#
Sebastian’s words proved prophetic. The next morning a merchant vessel made port at Cale Uriasz and they convinced the captain to give them passage to Cale Conall. From there, they made their way to the Dazhberg. Coming over the last rise, Sebastian slumped in the saddle of the flea-bitten horse he had been riding since they made landfall just a few days prior. Seeing the fortress, even in its dilapidated state from the Krenon occupation, was a relief he had not expected. It felt just like coming home. A dusting of snow covered the ground and piled an inch deep in the lee of the rocks adjoining the road. Gray clouds hung heavy in the sky above, threatening more than a dusting.
Looking back, he could see that Krystelle slumped in her saddle even more than he. If he was tired, she was bone-weary leading the mule dragging a small cart behind it. Whenever he looked back, it was all he could do not to rush over to the cart to try helping Cenric again. He had tried. Desperately tried to heal the boy several times on their journey, to no avail. He had not regained consciousness since their battle at Cale Uriasz.
A flurry of activity at the ruined gates of the Maw brought his attention back to the present. A contingent of riders was sallying to meet them. There were four riders coming out in full battle garb. Apparently the guard was not taking any chances by letting them approach the gates without being challenged.
Sebastian raised his fist for their little caravan to halt and pulled his horse short. The riders would be there soon enough, better not to appear a threat.
As things turned out, he needn’t have worried. It was only a few moments before the riders closed on them, and as they approached, he recognized the man on the lead horse. “Lord Commander Teoma!” He half fell from his saddle in relief.
“Sebastian! Krystelle!” the Commander reigned in his mount and climbed down from the saddle. “It is good to see you both. Although, I must confess my surprise.” To Sebastian’s eyes, the Lord Commander had aged in the few short weeks since he had last seen the man. His beard, normally carved into a pointed goatee, was uneven and grown long with hair now streaked with gray. Deep furrows in his brow and dark circles under his eyes spoke volumes about the state of things at the fortress.
Knowing they would need to give a full accounting to the Council, Krystelle and Sebastian presented Lord Teoma with an abbreviated report of their travels, focusing on Gerhard’s disappearance, the devastation at Cale Uriasz, and Sterling Lex’s trickery. “This is ill news you bring, young ones, yet it explains much that has transpired. I fear a war is coming and Gabirel is less prepared for it than ever we have been. Yet, there is cause to remain hopeful. Not only have you brought young Cenric home, you’ve given us warning before Lex can consolidate his forces in the spring. Come now, let these men take Cenric to the healers. They have great skill in these matters. As for the two of you, rest and then we’ll convene the council for your report. There will be much to do in the days ahead. But for now…welcome home.”
Soulstone
Book 4
Zefran settled back against an ancient oak outside the fading glow of the campfire, far enough from the light of the flames to ensure they would not destroy his night vision. To hear Bartok tell it, this would be their last night before reaching the tree-line. He did not relish breaking out of the relative shelter of the trees, and the resulting exposure to the biting winds of the winter storms. Bartok grew up in these mountains and, according to him, they should reach Hallvard within a matter of days.
Zefran hoped Bartok was right. For all of his experience on the campaign with the Order of Gabirel he had no wish to spend a night longer than necessary sleeping out of doors. Krystelle Mora’s insistence on taking shelter with a group of homesteaders a few days prior told him she shared his sentiment as shown. Bartok did not seem to mind the journey. Nothing phased the man. Jerrod, the last member of their party, was a mystery, he talked little and appeared as content in the mud during a rainstorm as he did sitting beside a warm fire at an inn.
Too much of a professional to look towards the camp to see how his compatriots fared, Zefran kept his focus outward toward where any threat would appear. The only danger he could see would be freezing before his watch was over, preventing him from reaching the relative comfort of his blankets.
With a keen eye on the sparse forest, he wished for more moon to give illumination. He gave himself another half hour before it would be time to walk around, keeping the blood flowing and his senses sharp. Settling in, he sighted the height of the Barrow constellation above the trees to use as a marker to gauge the passage of time.
It seemed the Barrow had not budged when something itched for his attention. The forest felt wrong. It had grown preternaturally still and nausea welled in his throat. Drawing his sword, Zefran prepared for whatever might come.
Ready as he was, the attack surprised him. A small horde of men and boys dressed in plain farm clothes and carrying simple tools emerged from the darkness charging toward the encampment. Before he opened his mouth to shout the alarm, they began screaming. It sounded like the demons of hell were descending upon them, and his fellow travelers scrambled to their feet in a moment, ready to meet the onslaught.
Crazed, the attackers smashed into the line of warriors. It was all they could do to defend themselves from being pummeled. Zefran joined the battle from the rear, pulling a boy off Bartok before he could plunge a hand trowel into the man’s face. The boy was no more than eight and Zefran had no desire to kill him. Cocking him on the head with the butt of his sword, Zefran tossed him aside. Turning away, he locked up with an old farmer beating at him with a hoe.
These were no soldiers, just insane farmers screaming at them in fury. Zefran did not have time to wonder why the attack, he kept punching and hitting and trying to stay alive. These simple folk were no match for the four warriors.
Zefran took stock of the scene. There were fewer than he had first thought. One farmer, the old man, several teens and the boy. Panting hard he inventoried his own condition. Other than a few scratches he was unscathed, he concluded. “Is everyone ok?” he breathed.
Wide-eyed, Jerrod nodded.
Krystelle knelt down next to the farmer, placing her hand on his neck. “He’s alive. I don’t think we killed any of them, thank goodness.”
“Thank goodness?” Bartok swore, “They tried to kill us. I wasn’t trying to hold back, just keep ‘em from killing me. Where did this scum come from anyway?”
Krystelle looked up at him, “Do you not recognize them?” Bartok shook his head in the negative. “These are the homesteaders we encountered two days ago. They gave us a hot meal and a place to sleep.”
Zefran inspected the boy he had thrown to the side, “You are right Krystelle Mora. This boy, he sat by me at dinner that night. He had a kind manner.”
“This is the third attack since we left the Dazhberg,” said Krystelle. “Remember that man in Aldmoor? We thought him drunk. Then, the serving lass in that little inn went crazy and tried to claw Jerrod’s eyes. Each time we brushed it off. Once or twice would be coincidence. Three times? I do not trust it. Something very strange is going on, and it is causing people to go crazy.”
Zefran agreed with her, “But what?”
Shaking her head, Krystelle rose and started back to their horses. “I do not know, but I have no intention of staying around here to ask them. We ride on tonight.”
Hours later, snow and sleet pummeled the mountainside and from the look of the sky, it would not let up anytime soon. It was half past mid-day, yet it seemed more like dusk.
Wind bit into exposed flesh and frost accumulated in every crevice. “We must find shelter!” Krystelle could barely make out Bartek’s shout overtop the howling wind. “We have been traveling without rest since the attack last night.
“Yes, but we must be near the entrance by now!” Her own response was practically lost to the elements. “Keep going!”
“I can not even see the road through this muck! This will be the death of us if we don’t get off this mountainside.” Her other two escorts nodded their hearty agreement. Zefran doubly so. His beard was ice-encrusted, giving him the appearance of a rock sculpture rather than a man.
He had good reason to be wary after his near-miss earlier that day. The blizzard had just begun to fall and he had become snow-blind momentarily, forcing his horse off the edge of the narrow trail. Realizing in the nick of time, Zefran had thrown himself from the saddle. His unfortunate mount had plunge off the craggy cliff to its death. That delay had cost the four of them precious time in finding their destination before the storm made the way impassible.
“Just a bit further on!” encouraged Krystelle. "If we do not find the doorway soon, we will take shelter as we can.”
Rounding a bend, the trail led them into a crevice in the cliff face. Passing between the pillars of rock on either side brought much needed shelter from the biting wind. Breathing a sigh of relief, they pressed forward into the narrow passageway. Coming around one last blind corner, the road ended at a sheer block of black, glassy stone extending a score of feet above them and plunging into the ground.
“Well this is a pickle.” Zefran’s voice matched his appearance, icy and rocky. “We must’ve missed the entrance in all that blow.”
“Aye,” said Bartek. “At least we’re out of the cursed wind. I say we set up camp right here where there’s a bit of shelter until the storm blows itself out.”
Eligium- The Complete Series Page 28
