Salmaen hoisted his battered opponent to his feet. “If you act like a imp, you shall look like an imp,” announced King Salmaen to the crowd. “The oath of fealty, or your life.”
Mattieus nodded weakly and kneeled. With a bowed head he spoke quietly.
“Before the maelstrom of Himmel, sword blades notched
Across the deepening sea, steady oarsmen rowed
At the crossing of Ketmul, staunch shields girded
From the ruins of Temora, lithe banners uplifted
As my grandsires before me, my breath is my king’s
Till my life is unspun, and I heed my soul’s beckoning.”
Throughout the chamber, others fell to their knees and repeated the gesture.
Salmaen lifted Mattieus to his feet. “You will serve as the tip of my spear. You and all your contingent will join my vanguard, and if need be, lay down your life for Halgath.”
“Such is your will, My King,” said Mattieus in a faltering voice. His knees began to buckle. Several dwarves rushed forward and walked the writhen man from the circle.
“His honor is now tied to that of the king,” explained Ivatelo. “He will either die in the king’s service or bring shame to his kin.”
King Salmaen pressed through the throng of supporters, pumping his maul triumphantly. The crowd was driven into a frenzy, belting out war songs, and readying themselves for the coming battle.
“Clever bastard,” Bently muttered to himself. Salmaen had driven the people into a ravenous mob, making them good and ready to battle the foe that would soon arrive to their doorstep.
“Let’s go,” called Desperous. He led the chase after the king’s entourage.
New Halgath was a collection of caverns adjoined by a network of tunnels that snaked through the core of the mountain. After passing through several smaller caves, each displaying varying degrees of rawness, they arrived to a cavern that was larger than all others combined. Standing upon its brink, the massive expanse stretched beyond Bently’s vision, swallowed in the distance by a veil of black. Only the yellow twinkle of torchlight on the far wall of the expanse revealed that the cavern ever ended. This unnatural void in the earth was carefully terraced, each level stair-stepped above the previous. Promenades ran the length of each terrace, fronted by the facades of homes, the interiors of which were burrowed into the earth.
Salmaen had disappeared into the crowd, but in the distance Bently could spy the bobbing standard of the king as it progressed through the terraced levels of the city. Bently imagined half the countryside was holed up within the mountain, so dense was the crowd; they had to shove to make any headway. They finally caught up with Salmaen’s party on the uppermost terrace, just as they were slipping into a walled complex. Bently ran after them, but was stopped by halberd wielding guards who crossed their hafts before the entrance. “Thatcher!” yelled Bently, just as the door was about to clasp shut.
Thatcher halted the door with his hand and peeked around the edge, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. A look of relief contoured his creaton face when he discovered Bently and Desperous waving at him from behind the checkpoint. He motioned for the guards to let them pass, and welcomed them into the antechamber of the king’s palace. “Thank the gods you two made it.”
“We’re just glad to be somewhere we can rest for a bit,” said Bently. He gripped Thatcher’s hand in greeting.
Desperous nodded, directing the dragon’s gaze to Ivatelo. “We’ve brought company.”
“The old man from the woods?” Thatcher looked confused.
“Ivatelo knew the back ways,” explained Desperous. “He led us through a perilous territory without incident, and for that we are in his debt.”
“I’m sorry for sounding suspicious,” said Thatcher. He shook Ivatelo’s hand. “Thank you for what you have done. There is much evil afoot. It’s good to find a helping soul.” He turned to the others. “Taper is gone,” he somberly reported. He went on to describe a hellish scene of massacred bodies and torched homes. Everyone was in disbelief save Ivatelo.
“The dragoons are a dark enemy,” said Ivatelo. “They will raze much more than Taper before their rampage is through.” He looked to Thatcher. “I know from Bently and Desperous where you plan to go. Please, let me accompany you.”
“He’s a magic,” explained Bently, before the dragon had a chance to press the issue of Ivatelo’s value.
“That he is,” said Thatcher, nodding his head in sudden recognition. He eyed Ivatelo from head to foot, as if seeing him now for the first time. “I’m sorry, but what stake do you have in this, Ivatelo?”
“A fair question,” answered Ivatelo. “You wouldn’t want someone on this journey who was not fully invested. When I see a wrong, I have a duty to correct it if I am able. There is a dragoon army beyond the wall of Eremor. The dead walk. A necromancer seeks the Orb of Azure. I am old, and I do not have much more to give. For what I have left, this is a worthy cause. There may be a part I have yet to play.”
“Fate?” asked Desperous.
Ivatelo nodded. “I believe it is so, yes. How else would I have happened upon your party?” He sighed. “I am not a useless dotard. I will not be a hindrance. Please, let me join you.”
Desperous sought Bently‘s approval with his eyes.
Bently shrugged indifferently. The Weaver guides the destinies of men in mysterious ways. If this was fate, who was he to contest.
“Very well,” said Desperous. “That makes our company four.”
“Not exactly,” said Thatcher. “I am going to remain in Halgath. I have recruited an elder to fly you to the island. She will more than make up for my absence.”
“May the gods protect you,” said Bently. He raised his hand in a gesture of blessing.
“You don’t need gods when you have Halgath blades at your side,” called a boisterous voice. King Salmaen, who had been absent when they entered, waltzed into the greeting room holding a bloodied rag to his forehead. Two dwarves they had not yet seen followed in his wake.
“King Salmaen, I would like to present the emissaries from Capernicus and Luthuania.” There were amicable greetings amongst all parties. The two dwarves that accompanied the king were Lan Byron, the king’s brother, and Moch Dolum, the king’s son.
Dolum was stocky, and rather small for a dwarf. He wore a red doublet, like his father. His head and face were shaven, leaving only hints of red stubble. He eagerly watched the conversation amongst his elders with bright brown eyes, outwardly pleased he was allowed to be present.
The king led the ambassadors into the adjacent parlor and motioned to a collection of couches before a hearth. Wood panels plastered the walls, and woven rugs covered the natural stone floor. The apartment was so opulently furnished, Bently almost forgot they were deep within the mountain’s core. Footsore and exhausted, he gratefully collapsed into the down cushions of the nearest couch.
“Welcome to my empire,” said King Salmaen. “Or at least, I think it’s still mine.” He looked to Byron with a grin. “Did Mattieus win or did I, Brother?”
“I believe it was you, Father,” said Dolum in an appeasing manner.
“Aye, I believe it was me.” King Salmaen smiled.
“That’s only because Mattieus is soft.” Byron threw a few mock punches in his brother’s direction. “You’d be king of a midden heap right now had you challenged me.”
Salmaen ignored his brother’s bluster. “Mattieus is in his place, as all men should be, and my soldiers are as wild as animals. We could march them off a cliff and they would follow us with zeal.”
“Indeed,” said Thatcher, getting to business. “But that doesn’t settle everything. What does the necromancer want from Halgath?”
“That I cannot tell you,” replied King Salmaen. He settled into the central couch. “If his goal is to get after that Orb of yours, I can’t begin to understand what business he would have with Halgath.”
“I fear the necromancer intends to murder you,�
� said Ivatelo bluntly. “He would not have marched on Halgath unless he believed this was possible. And if successful, his army would increase twofold. The borders of Luthuania would be overrun, and the war all but lost.”
The king merely scoffed at the absurdity of the notion, doubling over in laughter.
As if cued by the king’s jubilance, the parlor suddenly began to fill with the members of the king’s household. Half a dozen women entered the room, all young, all beautiful, with jet black hair and eyes like coal. Two of the women held suckling babes to their breasts, while a third was deep into pregnancy. They collected about a pile of bolsters and gossiped quietly amongst themselves. A few eyed their king from time to time, but most paid little heed to the talk of war and ruin.
With the women came a flood of children. They poured into the room from every wing of the house. Varying in age from toddler to teen, they all possessed the same dark bearings of the women of Salmaen’s harem. If the children stopped moving for a second, Bently might have managed to count them all, but they moved like a whirlwind, jumping over furniture, and bouncing atop their father. Bently smiled at one of the little girls who was waving a wooden sword in the air. The girl replied by whacking him on the kneecap. This only enlivened the king’s laughter further.
“A tough lot we make, huh?” said Salmaen, finally mastering his mirth. He hoisted the sword-wielding child by her feet, while trapping another in a headlock. “You’re correct, Ivatelo. The fool might try to kill me, but he won’t get within a league.”
“King Salmaen has agreed not to face the necromancer in battle,” reported Thatcher, clearly relieved that the king had accepted such an emasculating request.
“It just isn’t proper,” Salmaen muttered almost to himself.
“Yet it is entirely necessary,” called an icy voice. Queen Thea Hearst entered the parlor, causing the roughhousing children to freeze mid-stride. She was draped in a green velvet dress that fit intimately over her frame, and clutched a cream shawl in the crux of each arm. Upon her chest rested a ruby brooch. The tresses of her red hair had the sheen of dancing fire. She possessed a graveness that the other women lacked; her demeanor was severe, her brown eyes piercing. She sat stiffly beside her husband, legs crossed, hands resting in practiced perfection upon her knees. Her mere presence sent the bastard children scurrying away. Only Dolum seemed capable of tolerating the stringent queen.
King Salmaen nodded in agreement with his wife, and set the two children he had been holding hostage to the ground. He playfully knuckled the head of each child, and with a sharp pat to the rump, he sent them skirting into the waiting arms of their respective mothers.
“Now, these Gates of Salvation, what exactly are they?” pressed Bently, his curiosity raised by the bostit.
“It’s a dead fall gate,” explained Byron. “A hundred tons of solid iron. It will serve as our final bastion if we can’t stave the carrion tide.”
“A good last resort,” replied Ivatelo.
King Salmaen nodded. “Many a soldier will die before I sacrifice the northern tracks.”
“But if they must fall, they will,” said Queen Thea resolutely.
“Could a magic raise the gates?” asked Desperous.
“Absolutely not,” said Ivatelo. “The energies involved would be far beyond a mortal’s means.”
“This truly is a dark day,” muttered King Salmaen. “To think that fool demagogue might be right. We may have to hide behind a wall of iron. If only we had the army we once possessed, we could wipe this scourge clean from the earth.” He looked to Thatcher. “This alliance of yours, what is it that you offer?”
“Right now, very little,” explained Thatcher. “All kingdoms have been pressed to the fire. At this moment Luthuania and Capernicus can aid you no more than you can aid them.”
King Salmaen snorted. “That King Johan is dead, and Capernicus burns, this lightens my heart. They were stains upon Laveria. Perhaps I should welcome this necromancer with open arms.”
“Remember well before you speak,” snapped Bently. “These are the same dragoons who ravaged your land and raped your people. They are no friends to you.”
“No? And the men of Caper are?” said King Salmaen. Bently quailed beneath the king’s stern glare.
“If you will not deal with the men of Caper, deal with me,” said Desperous. “The people of Luthuania are your friend.”
“The Luthuanians are not our enemy,” corrected Queen Thea, speaking for her husband. “They have never been our friend, and they do not offer us anything. The enemy is at our gate, Prince Desperous. My king needs men at arms and you offer him naught.”
Thatcher raised his hand, trying to ease the tension. “We offer you nothing; you know this as well as us all. But you might consider which you prefer: a king on a throne, or a slave under yoke.” Thatcher paused to let King Salmaen consider the notion. “Another day I may ask you for an alliance, but today I ask only for a man.”
“This false god of yours, you think he can help?” asked King Salmaen.
“I can only pray so. Yansarian’s powers are immense. If awakened, perhaps he could slay this necromancer.”
“Perhaps,” echoed Queen Thea. She patted her husband’s knee, sending him an unspoken signal.
Salmaen looked to Thea to see if he truly understood her intent. She nodded. Salmaen sighed. “I will support your mission,” said the king reluctantly. “Captain Braddock is one of my best men, he’ll accompany you to this Spire Island. If the gods are willing, we’ll all be saved.”
“Aye.”
“Father,” called a meager voice. It was Dolum. “Pardon my interruption, but Captain Braddock would be of greater service to the empire if he remained here. War is at our door. You’ll need fighting men. Let me go in his place.”
All turned to look at the young dwarf who seemed to shy away under their gaze.
“You’re far too young,” said King Salmaen.
“I’ve trained and been put to trial. I’ve my rights of manhood,” said Dolum. There was no confidence in his voice, but the pleading nature of his eyes would have softened the hardest of hearts. King Salmaen looked unconvinced.
“The boy is ready, My King,” said Thea. Her intonation was such that the statement was less a suggestion and more a directive.
King Salmaen nodded as if a puppeteer had plucked his cord. “If you’re going, you need to have your wits about you, Son. You’re representing Halgath. No mistakes, understand?”
“Fully.”
Salmaen smiled warily. His disquiet showed plainly on his face, but he would not challenge the queen’s will before these strangers. “I imagine you three will need to get some rest. I’ll send word and have beds prepared for you in the west wing of the palace. In the meantime, I personally have a battle to prepare for.”
“Until tomorrow,” said Desperous.
“Aye,” said King Salmaen. “May the Creators shine fortune upon your path.”
“And may they shine fortune upon the Halgan Empire,” responded Bently. He glanced over the collection of young faces; they were blindly ignorant to the storm that gathered beyond the wall of their stone fortress. For the children’s sake, may fortune shine on the Halgan Empire, he thought. For the children’s sake, may the Guardian be the savior we seek.
CHAPTER
XVII
THE BATTLE OF NEW HALGATH
Thatcher’s parents fought in the War of Sundering to end the vile oppression of the demigods. Yet evils persist, and here I am, engaged in the same bloody enterprise my parents abhorred. And where were his parents? One fluttered between the realms of Elandria and the living, while the other was dead, a puppet for the necromancer.
Thatcher had done his best to ignore the truth, but on the eve of his first battle, he had collapsed and sobbed. He couldn’t shake the image of his father’s body, so strong throughout life, now emaciated and shivering. Afflicted with poison, Camara believed, or ravaged by a dark spell she did not know how to cont
est. Nor could he ignore the cries that echoed in his mind. The last desperate wails of the children of Taper. He had come upon them just as they took their final stand against the minions of the necromancer, feebly casting defensive wards while their instructors died all around them. Thatcher could do nothing to intervene, and from high above he watched one after the next die. He did not share that portion of the tale with the others. They would think him a coward. But what could I have done?
Today he would have to fight, he had no other option. He leaned on the haft of a long sword, the blade nearly the length of his body. It had been a gift from Lan Byron. The dwarf was thrilled by the prospect of what Thatcher might do with the outlandish blade. Thatcher wasn’t certain he could do anything at all. He was no warrior, he had no formal training, yet the blood of the Avofew coursed through his veins. Most falsely believed that was sufficient.
Thatcher‘s stomach was oddly quiet this morning. The fire sedated.
He shifted his gaze over the collection of milling dwarves who had gathered in the bazaar. In a few places stood sword thanes, their polished armor of the finest caliber. They proudly displayed their family banners, surrounded by their retinue of trained knights and squires. But most men were as ill-prepared for war as Thatcher. Many wore rusted antiques from the War of Sundering. Others were garbed in leather pants and doublets, foolishly believing they would do something to stop a blade. A few had tied slabs of raw iron to their chests and wore hammered buckets on their heads. Half the conscripts were drunk from the numbing effects of engroot. Boys who were too young to fight were shifting through the masses, eagerly handing out the white gummy substance to anyone who would take it. “Engroot, Dai Dragon,” offered a round-faced boy, far too excited for the imminent battle. Thatcher patted the child on the head and instructed him to return to the city.
Near the entrance to the cavern a trumpet blared. King Salmaen entered with a great host of men, each wearing the black polished carapace armor of a Halgan knight. The king made his way through the ranks, laughing jovially and cheering his men on.
The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2) Page 15
