The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2)

by Lee H. Haywood

  Thatcher gingerly lifted himself upright, realizing he was lying atop a number of shattered pews. He checked the dome again. Were the two dragons still in pursuit? Had they continued after Marshal? The hole in the ceiling was still vacant. He paced around the debris-strewn floor trying to locate the street entrance to the temple. Glancing into an alcove, he leapt back in fright as the silhouette of a monstrous gaping maw lunged after him.

  Jumping to the far side of the hall, he looked back. The enemy was not pursuing him. Instead it remained within the alcove, mouth still agape. Thatcher issued a sigh of relief that sounded hollow in the vast space. It was nothing more than a Guardian statue. After all, this was a temple dedicated to their reign. The ruby eyes of the idol stared back unblinking. Thatcher snorted with contempt at the false god.

  A noise to his left caught Thatcher’s attention. He peered through the dark, eyeing a niche with care. Something was hiding within the shadows. Making a quick leap across the interior of the structure, he sniffed the air. There are humans about.

  Suddenly, a man materialized from the darkness. Standing to his rear were a woman and child. The man looked neither afraid nor happy to see the dragon.

  “Is there a back way out of here, or a vault beneath the temple?” asked Thatcher in the lowest voice he could manage.

  The man shook his head. “My family has hidden here,” said the man in a somber tone. “Are they attempting to retake the city?”

  Thatcher was nonplussed. “Retake the city? What do you mean? Retake the city from whom?”

  “The carrions,” whispered the man.

  The words chilled Thatcher’s soul. “The dead? What of King Johan? Out with it, quickly!”

  The man didn’t respond, he pointed over Thatcher’s shoulder and ushered his wife and child back within the confines of the shadows.

  There was a sharp clack as crumbling plaster showered against the marble floor. Thatcher jerked his head around and cursed under his breath.

  Perched uneasily upon the edge of the dome was one of the black dragons. The beast snaked its thin head within the building and issued a guttural challenge. It clawed at the faltering stone structure, causing a portion to collapse in a hail of dust and debris.

  Thatcher was at an extreme disadvantage. The dragon was stronger than him, faster than him, and it controlled his means of escape.

  The dragon lunged forward like a coiled spring. Thatcher girded himself to receive the attack, but the momentum of the attacking dragon suddenly reversed, and while still in midair, the dragon was yanked out of the temple by some unseen force. It emitted a startled screech and was gone.

  Thatcher listened intently, not understanding what could have caused the dragon’s body to defy physics. The foundation suddenly shook from Marshal’s unmistakable roar. A smile parted his lips; Marshal had come to his rescue. Thatcher scrambled forward, desperate to climb out of the building and come to his comrade’s aid. An object shot by overhead. It was the other dark dragon. It crashed into the fray like a bolt of lightning. More roars and shrill cries pierced the air. Thatcher pulled his frame free from the confines of the temple, but it was too late. The din of battle was replaced by a deathly silence.

  Thatcher froze atop the temple’s shattered dome, allowing his ears to hone in on the noise beyond. Something heavy was scraping across the ground just out of view. Visions of Marshal’s dead body haunted his mind. Surely the old bull has the strength to defeat one of the dragons, but two? Conjuring up his courage, Thatcher leapt into the courtyard prepared to fight. To his utter relief Marshal was perched over one of the fallen beasts. The other dragon lay broken over a stone wall, its back inverted like the cover of a closed book.

  “Blessed be all your days, Marshal!” Thatcher spoke in a whisper, but his voice seemed to echo through the empty city. “You managed both of them single-handedly.”

  Marshal didn’t respond, and continued on with his task, jerking back and forth rhythmically as his mouth worked on something. The sound of slicing flesh caused Thatcher to guess what he was doing.

  Leaping in front of his friend, Thatcher eyed Marshal with worry. Marshal’s jaws were set firmly around the neck of the black dragon. He yanked a few more times, and with a sickening crunch the head tore free of the body. Marshal immediately gagged, spitting out chunks of putrid flesh and congealed blood.

  Gripping the head firmly with his claws, Marshal motioned skyward. “Let’s get out of here before more of these abominations show up.”

  Only after they had put half a dozen leagues between themselves and the desolate city did Thatcher ask the obvious question. “Why in the name of everything holy did you take that dragon’s head?”

  “As evidence.” Marshal hurled the blackened head over to Thatcher.

  Thatcher rolled it over inquisitively. He suddenly felt ill. Within the writhen visage he saw something familiar. The slender eyes, the blunted beak, there was no mistaking the dragon’s race.

  “Look inside the mouth,” instructed Marshal.

  Inexplicably, rigor mortis had already set in. Thatcher had to use all of his strength to pry the teeth apart. Near the rear molars, set on either side of the throat, were two black indentations. Incendiary glands. These creatures were kin of the Avofew clan. “I don’t understand,” said Thatcher finally.

  “Neither do I,” said Marshal, collecting the mortified Avofew head from Thatcher. “We need to go to Burrowing Hall. The clan must know what has transpired.”

  Burrowing Hall was carved in a pinnacle of stone in the southern reaches of the Eng Mountains. Black cavities pockmarked the rocky pillar. These were the catacomb vaults of the Avofew dead. At the base of the rock spire was the meeting hall, its grand entrance built upon a jutting ledge. The exposed facade of the A-framed temple was painted a myriad of colors; green for the forests, yellow for the sun, and blue for the fathomless sea. Before its door hung a dozen flags that beat stiffly in the wind, one for each of the twelve lordly broods.

  Thatcher and Marshal were not the only ones with news to spread. The courtyard was crawling with dozens of dragons. Thatcher quickly surmised why they had gathered. The eastern face of the mountain had collapsed, leaving a gaping hole where scores of Avofew had once been entombed. He came to a sickening realization about the dragons they had encountered at the Nexus.

  With a growing sense of urgency rising up his spine, Thatcher perched upon the outer rim of the flagstone ledge. As he landed, Marshal tossed the putrid head to the ground with disgust. The wet smack of rotting flesh striking the cold ground caused everyone’s head to turn.

  The dragons swarmed in around them.

  “It’s her son,” murmured one.

  “The poor little whelp,” whispered another.

  A few bowed their heads and rustled their wings in respect of Thatcher’s lineage.

  “What’s happening here?” demanded Thatcher, taking on a stern tone that he hoped would hide his growing fear. Not a soul answered, all simply stared with the same sunken eyes.

  A sturdy figure in creaton guise pushed his way through the crowd. “You have brought us the head of an Avofew,” said the man. He took the form of an elder, respecting the true age of his soul.

  “We have, Dai Ferrivo,” said Marshal with a nod. “We were attacked at the Nexus by the abomination.”

  “Then we are too late,” stated Ferrivo, his face suddenly stricken with grief.

  A murmur rose up from the crowd.

  “Please, tell us what is going on,” said Thatcher.

  “Much, my young broodling,” said Ferrivo. “Fly with me now. I will take you to Dain Camara. I will leave it to her to explain what has happened.”

  CHAPTER

  V

  WAIN GUARD

  The trail of survivors had staggered to a halt, sending a disquieting shudder through Bently’s frame. Every nerve in his body was screaming that they shouldn’t be here, not in these woods. Yet this is where Waymire had led them, despite Bently’s counsel to t
he contrary. All around him, wayworn soldiers gratefully threw their ragged bodies against the embankment that ran alongside the dirt road, their exhaustion defeating their fear of the surrounding forest.

  Nothing felt right about these Luthuanian woods. The air was thick with exotic scents. The leaves seemed to ceaselessly rustle without the slightest breeze. Beyond the narrow road, the trees grew so dense he could scarcely see fifty feet. Everything felt watched.

  Beside him, the axle of the armored carriage ground to a squealing halt. It was covered in mud and dripping in rust, having been thoroughly abused by their back road journey. The carriage master looked at him with displeasure. Bently could only shrug in response. He couldn’t imagine why Waymire thought this was a sensible place to stop.

  Bently smacked the side of the iron wagon. “We’re taking a break for a minute if you’d like to step out, Your Grace.” He waited to see if Lady Manherm would respond. There was no audible reply from within. He felt incensed by the ungrateful matriarch. She hadn’t had the decency to show her face once since they escaped the city, nor had she uttered a word of thanks to the men for their sacrifice. Half the garrison had fallen while hacking their way through the dragoon blockade. He spit on the wheel of her carriage. The carriage master took note, but Bently’s stern gaze sent his eyes shifting askance. Bently shook his head in disgust. Far too many died to keep her alive. He hurried off to see why the progression had halted.

  Bently walked briskly along the slick path, darting his gaze from side to side to inspect the state of his men. His eyes were met by fearful grimaces. He gave the men reassuring nods and pats on the shoulder. At times he stooped to check a man’s wound or speak a reassuring word. The men greeted him fondly and seemed to find some strength in his presence. In return, Bently did his best to fulfill the misguided faith they instilled in him.

  The men had come to look at Bently in an almost fatherly fashion. He scoffed at the idea. He was barely the senior of most of these men. Yet he was a trained soldier, an Elite Royal Guardsman at that. Most of these men were either conscripts or the spoiled second sons of liege lords. They knew nothing of war. Whatever valor they imagined they possessed was erased during their craven flight from Manherm. No one wanted to fight anymore, they simply wanted to survive, and for some reason many looked to Bently as if he were their only hope. Gods and kings decide the fates of men, thought Bently. He was neither of those.

  At the head of the line an elderly man was struggling to dismount his horse. He had one foot hooked in a stirrup, and another waving searchingly for the ground. The horse whinnied and spun, offsetting the old man’s precariously balanced weight. For a moment it looked as if he might topple over, the burden of his battle armor pulling him backward. Only the frantic hands of his squires kept him from falling to the ground. The venerable General Waymire had lost some of his luster in his elderly age.

  Waymire cursed at the two young men, throwing off their hands with a grand sweep of his arm, shooing them away. The squires nodded and bowed as they scuttled aside, graciously accepting their dismissal. Without needing a cue, Bently came to Waymire’s arm. Gripping his elder’s elbow and hand, Bently lowered Waymire down to his seat. Waymire’s hand was hardly flesh and bone, and it shook uncontrollably when contested with force. Waymire sighed wearily as he settled down upon the embankment. All strength had ebbed from the general in his wasting days, and he could do nothing to hide the exhaustion on his face. Bently wondered whether Waymire still had the strength to lift his sword.

  “You should accompany Lady Evelyn in the carriage,” said Bently, sensing the true reason they had halted. Waymire couldn’t keep on at such a grueling pace. “The matriarch could use some company.”

  The proud general snorted at the suggestion. “The lady has company enough, trust me. Now, don’t tell me my place.”

  Bently half bowed, consenting to the general’s directive. “We all grow weary, sir, especially the men,” said Bently, reporting the obvious. “And these woods only further stir superstitious fears. The men need to know where you lead them.”

  “Oh?” Waymire looked vexed by the proposition, and his brow furrowed in frustration. “They’ve never asked where I was leading them in the past.”

  “We’ve never had nowhere to go,” replied Bently coolly. “We can’t traipse about the land forever. These men aren’t campaigners, they’re...”

  “They’re alive,” snapped Waymire. He flitted his hand dismissively. “They ought to appreciate that fact. The world is ending, and everyone wants answers. Well, they’re going to have to wait. Everything in due order.” He gestured for Bently to come closer and began to check over the captain’s injuries. The heavy toll of war showed upon Bently’s face; his thin beard and short cropped hair did little to conceal the gash that ran from his brow to his cheek. It was his reward for cutting a dragoon off of the lady’s carriage during the flight. He stifled a grimace as Waymire turned his head from side to side.

  “There will be no covering this one up,” reported Waymire. “But it should heal and I see no sign of infection. Make sure you tend to yourself as well as you do the other men.”

  “I know, sir. Thank you.” Bently eyed the line of soldiers for a moment, making sure they were out of earshot. “Most of these men had family they abandoned at Manherm. They’re heartbroken, sir.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m a soldier, sir.” Bently blinked off the hint of moisture welling in his eyes. “What I have done has been out of loyalty to my king and my men. For now I will hold my grief and do my service. But I advise you not to push these men much longer without sharing your intent. You’ve taken us from the lair of one foe straight into the labyrinth of another.” He looked over the surrounding forest uneasily. “A tenth of the men are grievously wounded. Rot is setting in amongst many. We have to set up camp and give them a proper chance.”

  “I am fully aware of this,” said Waymire. He jutted his chin so that his gray beard pointed straight outward. “But when you take an oath you resign your right to question orders.”

  “Which oath did any of these men take?” whispered Bently, doing little to hide the hostility in his voice. “And better yet, which oath has merit over another? The oath I made to the brotherhood? The oath I made to my wife? The oath I swore to the Guard?”

  “To the king, Bently. All of us have taken that oath, and it stands supreme amongst all others.” He pointed to an invisible spot beyond view. “The last vestige of Capernican authority is sitting in a cart back there.”

  “She’s not worth it.”

  “You have no idea,” said Waymire. His tone dropped venomously and his eyes narrowed. Bently decided not to press the issue further. There were things Bently could say to Waymire that few others could, that was the nature of their relationship, but he also knew when to hold his tongue.

  Waymire’s head cocked from side to side, as if he were searching for a distant noise. “Do you hear that?”

  “I hear nothing,” began Bently, but even as he spoke he began to detect the noise. A low bass seemed to rumble through the earth, steady and rhythmic, like the breathing of a man in an empty room.

  “It’s coming from over there,” whispered Waymire, motioning to their right. With that said, he climbed over the embankment and disappeared into the dark forest beyond, demonstrating a degree of nimbleness that Bently would never have expected from such an elderly frame.

  Bently halted only long enough to give an order; he flashed his fingers out twice, signaling twenty to his men. With grim faces, that number fell into line, and Bently led them after the general.

  Clearing the embankment’s edge, Bently immediately detected all was not well. The trees overhead were splintered, and downed branches riddled the forest floor. Faint splotches of red were splattered amongst the brush in lengthy trails, only to disappear momentarily and then reappear a dozen paces away. Bently found Waymire following the trail. Using his sword as a cane, the old man was racing from one line
to the next. Bently chased after the general. Pushing through a thicket, Bently cursed loudly as thorns hooked into his hands. He was so preoccupied with the pain, he didn’t notice that Waymire had come to a dead stop and ran straight into him. Bently’s breath caught in his throat.

  “The dragons of the north,” managed Waymire in a hushed voice.

  The knot in Bently’s stomach tightened as he came to terms with what he was seeing.

  Sprawled out before him was a sight unlike anything he had ever seen. Two massive billowing wings fluttered in the wind. They were frayed and tangled in amongst the tree limbs. The dragon’s frame was twisted, and its neck rolled backward so that the creature’s face was buried in the undergrowth. Its massive tongue lolled from its mouth, moving up and down with each uneasy breath. The dragon’s hide was covered with gashes that offset scales the size of dinner plates. The dark red of these wounds stood out brilliantly against the dragon’s pale gray hide.

  Bently circled the body of the beast, meeting Waymire near the dragon’s underside. “What could do such a thing?” Bently asked quietly. Beside him, the scythe-like claws on the dragon’s hand dug into the earth as its fingers flexed spastically. Bently took a step back. He wasn’t sure if it was safe to raise his voice.

  “I haven’t the slightest clue,” said Waymire. He did a motion of blessing before himself. “May the Guardians protect this creature. There is nothing we can do.”

  “It is as ill an omen as I have ever seen,” said Bently. Following his commander’s cue, he bowed his head in reverence to the gods, and prayed silently for the dragon.