The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2)

by Lee H. Haywood

  Ivatelo’s suggestion sullied the benevolent image of the Guardians more so than any history lesson Dolum had ever heard. He was horrified. The gods used the people like cattle put out to pasture, each day blindly chewing their cud, growing fat for the slaughter. Across from him, Bently frowned at the discordant thought and took a lengthy draw from his flask.

  Desperous smirked. “So if the Nexus was an investment, then Coralan was as well.”

  “Exactly,” said Ivatelo. A broad smile crossed his face, like a teacher who had just directed his pupils to the correct conclusion without ever quite giving them the answer. “Why would the Guardians spend a third of their energy stores on a project for meditation? They wouldn’t. So what is the island for?” He scribbled sharp lines on either side of his drawing and then slashed across the top of the page joining the two lines. He had created a rectangle around the lower four fifths of the tower. Only the upper spire and steeple remained above the line. He filled in the rectangle with charcoal. “Have any of you ever seen a structure that looks like this.” Ivatelo pointed to the spires that remained.

  There was a flurry of no’s.

  “Good,” said Ivatelo. “I assumed as much.” He smugly leaned back against the basket having concluded his lesson.

  “That’s it?” blurted Dolum. He hadn’t meant to speak, but the magic had intrigued him.

  “Indeed it is,” said Ivatelo, grinning at the dwarf. “I’ll explain more when we arrive to the island. For now I need to rest my eyes. But if you need something to occupy your time, take a look out the window; we should be within visual range of Coralan by now.”

  Bently, Desperous and Dolum looked out the row of small windows set in the side of the basket. There was in fact a dark spot on the horizon, but it was hardly anything to talk about.

  “Doesn’t look like much,” grunted Bently.

  “Just wait,” replied Ivatelo.

  Bently made no reply and peered out a different window. He let out a discontented sigh and settled back into his seat. He gave Dolum a hearty slap on the back as he went. “You feeling better?”

  Dolum rubbed his stomach and forced a smile. “Yeah, I guess I do.” The truth was, he didn’t know how he felt anymore. Half of his mind was fearful for his life. The other half was simply awestruck by their destination.

  • • •

  Throughout the day the approaching island grew in grandeur. It was no longer a mere speck on the horizon, but a true monolith. Sided by sheer cliffs, the island rose more than a league into the sky before disappearing into a canopy of billowing white clouds. About its base a series of stone pillars broke the water’s inky surface, like a wreath of jutting teeth. The ocean slammed relentlessly into the stone walls, churning the water into white sea foam.

  Ivatelo gestured toward the vertical sheet of stone. “As you can see, the Guardians provided no safe harbor. Any vessel would be smashed to pieces if it drew near the island.”

  Dolum gaped in disbelief. Nothing he had ever seen in the natural world compared. Even the walls of Fir’radax seemed puny in comparison. Across from him, he noticed Bently crossing his heart in homage to the glorious creation of his gods. Even Desperous, who always seemed to be cloaked in a general sedateness, thrummed his fingers in excitement against the edge of the window.

  Just as Dolum was beginning to wonder how they would ever reach the summit, Camara’s voice drifted back to them. “Grab hold of something. This is going to be steep.”

  “How steep?” Dolum’s question was almost immediately answered as Camara arched skyward, her wings catching an updraft. Dolum slid backward, halting his fall by hooking his elbow through the edge of the window. His ears welled in pain; it was oddly similar to the sensation he felt when he dared to dive too deep in the natural springs of New Halgath. He tried to ignore the growing pressure in his head, grinding his teeth and focusing his attention outside.

  He had noted several small waterfalls cascading along the cliff face as they approached. At this height the wind roared, and the tumbling water was swept to a mist. Water pelted the basket like rain drops. Camara drove onward, corkscrewing higher and higher about the sides of the monolith. They entered a swath of clouds that were illuminated by the vibrant rays of the sun. Everything became veiled in light. The clouds suddenly dissipated, and they were through, having finally crested the zenith.

  Dolum momentarily caught a glimpse of the grassy plains that blanketed the mesa. Beyond stood a shimmering citadel that resembled delicate fingers of white stone. Then he saw nothing but the sky. Camara rolled.

  “Brace yourselves!” bayed Camara in a deafening explosion.

  Dolum’s heart raced. What was happening? He looked to the others; a grimace of fear was planted upon each person’s face.

  They were hit.

  For a moment gravity ceased to exist, and Dolum was sent flying through the air. He smacked into Bently, then he was off in the opposite direction. He slammed into the far corner, the rough sides of the basket stripping skin from his bare arms and shredding his clothes. They were tumbling rapidly in a spin. An earsplitting roar erupted just beyond the thin layer of wicker. The basket was struck with a jarring blow, and a clawed hand flashed through the interior, ripping the wall to ribbons. Desperous went flying backward; he reached out in panic, grasping at air. Suddenly, they were struck in the opposite direction. Dolum’s head smashed into something hard and his vision blurred. Then the situation eased; they had leveled out.

  Dolum scanned the basket, trying to clear his head. The entire left side had been reduced to tatters. Bently and Ivatelo lay heaped over each other in the corner, beaten but alive. That’s when Dolum came to a sickening realization; Desperous was gone.

  CHAPTER

  XXII

  CORALAN

  Desperous watched as the basket hurtled away. He reached wildly into the sky, his fingers frantically searching for holds. There was nothing to grab. He was falling. The earth looked hard and foreboding as it rushed up to meet him. There was a snap, and his breath burst from his lungs as he rebounded into the air. He landed again, this time all of his weight fell on his shoulder. The world faded and for a moment Desperous lay in a daze. He was buried in a swaying sea of green. A muffled cry. Charging feet. It all came flooding back in an instant.

  Desperous sat upright, finding himself alone in a field thick with tussocks. Some of the grass tufts reached waist high. The stalks weltered in the wind, swirling about him like green waves. A dozen feet away the world seemed to end, and beyond, a depthless shade of blue stretched on forever. Desperous stumbled to his feet and reached for his chest. His right shoulder screamed with pain. He tried his other arm; it seemed to work fine. He gingerly rubbed his chest. A rib or two were broken, that was for sure. His breaths were pained but manageable. He cleared his head with a sharp shake and quickly scoured the windswept plateau for Camara. The dragoness was gone, presumably over the cliff’s edge.

  Here and there about the rolling plain stood a lone tree. Each was as tall as an ancient elm, yet they were different from any tree Desperous had ever seen. Their branches drooped almost to the ground, weighed down with succulent fruits the size of a man’s fist. A quarter league away loomed the stone towers of the Guardian’s citadel. The white stone glowed, radiating in the afternoon sun.

  A trumpet blared to the east. He was not alone.

  A mass of carrions were approaching. He had to make a fast decision; stand his ground and wait for Camara, or run for the citadel. If he tried to run he would tire and the carrions would not. And when I arrived, then what?

  His choice was settled for him. Three dragoons emerged from behind a low hill, placing themselves between Desperous and the citadel. Their bodies were encased in hard black leather and dull iron plate. Much of the gray flesh they left exposed was painted with garish colors. The two foremost dragoons charged, rushing toward Desperous with wing blades swept aside. Desperous made a few feigned motions to flee and then doubled over, wincing in apparent
pain. He watched them approach from the corner of his eye.

  Forty paces, thirty, twenty, ten...

  In the blink of an eye, Desperous drew his bow, nocked two arrows in rapid succession, and struck each dragoon with a precise shot to the neck. One fell dead midstride, the arrow cleaving his spine. The second managed a few staggered steps before he fell to the ground sputtering. He convulsed like a dying spider until his life jerked to a sudden halt.

  Desperous’s motions were so deft, so carefully practiced and mastered, he hardly gave them a second thought. The bow was an extension of his hand, and the fighting became instinctual. He thanked the Creators, because he knew if he thought too hard about what he was doing he would be paralyzed into inaction. The killing always haunted him long after the fighting was through. His father had told him this was what gave him a soul. That self-loathing was what separated him from the monsters; it was such introspection that these dragoons lacked. He looked down upon the contorted bodies, their stiff forms half concealed in grass, and toyed with the emotion of pity. He couldn’t find it.

  Blocking the sun with the flat of his palm, Desperous dared a quick scan of the horizon. Camara was still nowhere to be seen, but he swore he heard a roar waver on the wind. The swarm of carrions would mob him within the minute, and he still had this last dragoon to deal with. He noted then how still he held his hand; level without the slightest hint of a tremor to betray the despair that wheeled in his soul. That bothered him almost as much as anything. The mind was haunted; his body was resolute. With a sigh of resignation, he transferred his weight to his back leg, and snapped the haft of his Razorwind, revealing its twin blades.

  The remaining dragoon was a hulking menace, taller by half than Desperous. He wore armor stained with gritty rust, and his wing blades were festooned with a myriad of ribbons of differing colors and fabrics. He bounced lithely on the balls of his clawed feet, bizarrely relaxed for one who had just witnessed the deaths of his comrades. The dragoon eyed Desperous with black slit eyes dripping with antipathy.

  “Korre, son of Orvie, chieftain of the Rerra clan,” barked the dragoon as he slapped his own chest with the square blade of his weapon. Desperous made no motion to announce his own lineage. “And you are Desperous, son of Nochman the Great, Prince of Luthuania.”

  Desperous grunted in response.

  “A warrior waits a lifetime to kill a man of such merit,” snarled Korre, as he bowed mockingly. He carried a cleaver like blade in each hand, but opted to holster the weapons through loops in his belt. “I will take your scalp with my hands, I think.”

  The dragoon fiendishly clacked his beaked maw, and then charged in a leaping twirl. His wing blades flailed like a whip, and Desperous hardly had a chance to raise his own weapon in defense. His Razorwind was almost wrenched from his grasp by the devastating blow. Desperous regained his bearings just in time to parry off another hacking arc of the dragoon’s bony appendage. He never saw the iron-studded gauntlet until it was too late.

  Desperous was leveled by the hit, and his Razorwind went flying from his grasp. He fell to the ground in a daze. Bright lights blurred his vision. He coughed, spitting up saliva rich with blood.

  “You are hardly the warrior of legend, Desperous, son of Nochman,” said Korre, goading the prince. He paced around the elf as one does a defeated foe. “How is it that you are the son of the Wyrm Slayer?” The dragoon stomped his feet and hacked downward with his wing blade. With hardly a moment to spare, Desperous rolled to the side, catching the tip of the dragoon’s bony blade in his shoulder. His meager armor did nothing to stop the zealous attack, and his muscle was cleaved in two.

  Blood gushed from the wide opening, painting the grass scarlet. The laceration was numb and throbbing. Desperous ignored the ghastly injury and dove head first, collecting his Razorwind. Scrambling on all fours, he arrived to one of the dead dragoons and yanked an arrow free from its jugular. Muscle memory overcame the complete senseless void he felt in his left arm, and in one smooth motion he notched the arrow to his string and let the projectile fly. The arrow closed the distance instantly, but instead of lodging into Korre’s skull, it flew harmlessly over the edge of the cliff. Korre had skirted aside from the arrow’s trajectory, and sprung into the air with his blades aimed to skewer Desperous’s chest. Desperous tried to move, but there was no time; Korre had him.

  Desperous closed his eyes and awaited the inevitable. He had failed his father. He had failed his people. He had failed Laveria. He bitterly accepted this unexpected fate. But to his shock, the trauma of twin blades sinking through his body never came. Instead, Desperous felt the sickening lurch of his stomach turning over as he was yanked skyward. Korre’s figure shrank away, his face twisted with ire as he watched his quarry slip into the distance.

  “Are you alright, mate?” A voice screamed from somewhere overhead.

  It took Desperous a moment to make sense of it all. In the split second before Korre would have sent Desperous to Elandria, Camara had flown by and snatched him from certain death. Now he hung helplessly within the grasp of Camara’s mammoth hand; his shoulders and head popped out one side of her fist, while his feet dangled from the other. She flew only a fathom or two above the ground, and he felt his feet lick the tops of grass stalks with each down stroke of her wings. Below, a sea of green and brown darted by in a blur. Above and behind him, he could vaguely see from the corner of his eye the heads of Dolum, Bently, and Ivatelo peering through the tattered remains of the basket.

  “Desperous, are you alright?” It was Dolum.

  “Yeah, I think so,” was all Desperous could manage. The truth was he didn’t know. He sensed a warm dampness running past his bicep and snaking down his forearm. The feel of his fingers touching one another was slick. His ribs and shoulder ached from the fall, and he felt a growing tightness in his chest. Camara’s awkward grasp only worsened the situation. He would have complained, but after one look at the dragoness it was obvious this was no time to make such a comment.

  Camara was a mess. Her body was a collage of awry scales and open wounds. The worst damage was around her throat. Four deep grooves ran down her neck, and the skin was shredded. He realized with horror that he was seeing inside of her body, the twisted sinew of her blood red muscle, the corded veins of her neck. She was lucky to be alive.

  “I’ll get you to the sanctuary,” managed Camara with great effort. Her voice was a gasping rasp. “Seek shelter in the central tower. I’ll do what I can to stop the carrions.” Desperous doubted she could do much.

  “Look out!” Dolum’s shrill warning gave merely an instant for anyone to gird themselves.

  A pair of rotting dragons fell out of the sky like dead weights. Camara barrel-rolled, and the first undead dragon missed completely. Its body accordioned into the ground. The second latched onto her tail with a viselike grip. It was hopeless to stay airborne, and she skidded into the earth, her head whipping into the ground with bone-jarring force.

  Her grasp went limp and Desperous flew free, rolling head over feet into the stalks of grass. “Get out of there!” screamed Desperous, before he even regained his feet. He waved frantically, trying to rouse the passengers within the basket.

  Camara was in a daze, her eyes glassy and unresponsive. The undead dragon paced around Camara like a circling lion. It would only be a matter of time until she was forced onto her back, crushing the basket and its occupants.

  Ivatelo was the first to emerge from the wrecked basket. He leapt to the ground and immediately motioned skyward as if to collect a bundle. Dolum came dangling out next, held aloft by Bently’s outstretched arms. The dwarf’s eyes were frantic as Bently let him drop. Ivatelo broke his fall. Next was Bently’s turn. He began to crawl down Camara’s scaly hide when the dragoness was struck. She was sent reeling. Bently leapt and hit the ground running, barely avoiding the thrashing bodies of the dragons.

  Camara roused from her stupor with a sudden strength. She issued a bellicose roar and latched her hands on
to the undead dragon’s skull. She bore out its eyes with her taloned thumbs and split its skull down the middle. Like a nightmare come to life, the mutilated dragon fought on, kicking viciously into Camara’s underbelly, rending flesh.

  “Keep moving!” yelled Ivatelo. He forcefully dragged Dolum forward.

  Seeing Desperous’s condition, Bently didn’t hesitate to hook an arm around the elf’s waist and help him along. With the man’s aid, Desperous managed to break into a hobbling sprint despite his various wounds. They halted only after a hundred paces had been placed between them and the battling giants. Desperous looked over his shoulder, and momentarily spied the writhen image of the two dragon’s entwined in a death hug. Behind them, a black sheet of pulsating flesh advanced like a wave.

  Dolum began to hyperventilate.

  Bently hid his eyes.

  Desperous watched grimly as the carrions swept over the dragons. Camara’s marred frame was swallowed by the swarm.

  “Press on,” ordered Ivatelo.

  The four creatons broke into a run. As futile as it seemed, it was all they could do. Seek shelter within the temple. Then what? Barricade the door, and hope the Guardian is home and ready to help? Desperous sincerely doubted it would be that easy.

  Dolum screamed out in fright. “They’re cutting us off!” His finger quivered as he pointed to the crest of the next hill. Desperous followed the gesture and spotted the silhouettes of five figures kneeling atop the ridge. They were carrying longbows with arrows already set to their strings. There was no time to spare.

  Desperous acted in a blur; freeing himself of Bently’s grasp, he nocked his last arrow and drew his bowstring taut. He instinctively sighted the foremost foe and was prepared to let fly when something struck his hand. His grasp was forced sideways and his numb hand released the shaft. The arrow shot harmlessly into the ground at his feet. In utter shock, Desperous glanced around and discovered the source of the redirecting blow. Ivatelo had swatted him with his staff.