“Don’t shoot!” ordered Ivatelo.
“What...?” Desperous frantically fumbled for the arrow, but it was too late, the enemy had already let fly. With nothing else to do, Desperous ducked down and cursed under his breath. The old man had tricked them all.
CHAPTER
XXIII
THE LUMANI
With no time to spare, Desperous threw his body across Bently and Dolum. All three went to the ground in a tangled heap. Only Ivatelo remained standing, his old gnarled hands calmly resting on his walking staff. A pensive smirk creased the magic’s lips as he lazily followed the flight of the arrows with his eyes. Desperous realized then that the arrows were much too high to be intended for them. To his surprise, the arrows struck into the front runners of the carrion horde. A second volley arrived a split second later. Then a third and a fourth. The horrid mob of carrions began to tumble over one another, their skewered bodies collecting in a pile at the base of the hill.
“Who are they?” blurted Bently, spitting out a mouthful of dirt. He scampered back to his feet and drew his sword, shifting the tip of steel between the carrions and the five strangers at the crest of the hill.
“I don’t care,” yelled Dolum, already clambering hand and foot up the side of the hill.
Ivatelo helped Desperous back to his feet. “My apologies. I recognized them as friends.” As he released Desperous’s hand, he eyed the elf’s bloody arm with concern.
“Not now,” said Desperous, turning his shoulder away from the magic. “When we get to the citadel.” The confidence in his voice belied the doubt he had in his mind. He had not felt Ivatelo’s hand in his own. Not a good sign. But they had no time to tend the wound right now.
Ivatelo and Bently each hooked an arm around Desperous’s waist to help him manage the steep grade of the hill.
“Who are they?” repeated Bently. His voice came out in bursts as he half ran, half dragged Desperous forward.
“The duen lumani.”
“Lumani? Like the dark children lumani?”
“Simply know that they are here to help.”
They met Dolum at the crest of the hill just as the five lumani spent another round of arrows. There were four men and one woman. Each looked nearly identical to the next, more so than a brother might his own siblings. All were a head taller than Ivatelo, who was the tallest in their party. They had ghostly blue eyes and stern faces beset with square jaws. Their heads were shaved, save for a strip of long blond hair they held coiled in a topknot. They wore blood-red robes made of wool. The garish color stood out like a beacon against the green plains. There was a brazenness about their dress, and Desperous considered it much akin to a poisonous toad; it was a vibrant warning to any who dared to lift a blade in challenge. His father told legends of the Red Guard. How during the War of Sundering none would willingly face them. How they possessed the strength of three men. They were the wisest and most vicious of the dark children, and they wore their cloaks like a martial badge. Even the carrions, who knew nothing of fear, milled about the base of the hill, clearly unsettled by this new stimulus.
The female greeted them by drawing her hands over her heart, and performing a short bow. “I am Kylick, watcher of the citadel, servant of the Guardian’s will. Be quick, what is your intent?”
Bently awkwardly attempted to copy the bowing gesture. “I...ah...we,” stammered the man, fumbling over his words.
Ivatelo interjected, taking on a regal intonation. “We are pilgrims, followers of the Faith, here to resurrect the Savior of All, the Guardian of Coralan.” He perfectly replicated Kylick’s gestures. An all too practiced motion, thought Desperous.
Kylick nodded in approval and flashed a series of hand signals to her men. The lumani set vivid red arrows to their strings, and sent them flying deep within the carrion ranks. Desperous felt, as much as he saw, what happened next. The recipients of the arrows exploded in brilliant balls of yellow flame. Limbs and flesh were torn asunder, heads popped off bodies like ripe fruit. The concussion from the explosion rippled across the plain, and even a hundred paces away Desperous felt as if he were kicked in the chest. A second volley of the volatile arrows brought the carrions to a standstill. The hillside was littered with dozens of blasted bodies.
“That will provide us time to seek shelter,” said Kylick. She led them at a blistering pace toward the citadel, explaining what was going on as they went. “The children of the Dark One arrived two nights ago, yet they made no signs of hostility until this moment. We have set up fortifications within the citadel.”
Desperous churned his legs like a drunkard, hardly feeling his feet touch the ground. Without the support of his comrades, Desperous was certain he would waver and collapse. A crippling chill was slowly overcoming his extremities. He tried to ignore the haunting sensation, focusing instead on their destination.
The outer wall of the citadel loomed adjacent to their path. Pointed crenelations capped an impassible white stone wall. A low archway unceremoniously bored through the wall and granted access to the inner bailey. No road led to its entrance, nor was it adorned with any ornament. It was oddly plain and simple for the entrance to a holy shrine; then Desperous considered who precisely was meant to enter the structure. The Guardians needed no doors.
Beyond the wall rose the towers of Coralan, reaching toward the heavens like the fingers of a grasping hand. Four square steeples dotted the edge of the compound; one north, one south, one east, one west. They were set about a fifth central tower. It was held aloft by a series of flying buttresses that spanned from the outer four. It rose to a pinnacle high above the island, casting its shadow across the land like the gnomon of a sundial. The tower cluster gleamed with shimmering light, making it appear as if it were carved of moonstone. Desperous was awestruck, and he felt his knees grow weak as he succumbed to the grandeur of the sight before him.
Desperous came to an astonishing realization; he was no stranger to the vision set before him. He had seen such a sight numerous times during diplomatic missions to the Nexus. The four steeples clustered about the central core were identical to the upper spire of the Tower of Yasmire. Yet even the shortest tower within the complex was on par with the Tower of Yasmire itself. So great was the scope of the buildings before him, Desperous almost felt silly jumping to such a conclusion, yet he could think of nothing else; he was standing before an exact replica of the Tower of Yasmire. These towers were just the upper pinnacle of a greater complex. Desperous imagined the very foundation of the structure lie in the depths of the ocean, endless fathoms below.
A cold shudder ran through his body.
If the Tower of Yasmire could amplify the power of the Guardians to create the island of Coralan, then this citadel had the strength to reshape the world. Desperous now understood the gamble they were taking.
Kylick led them through the archway and into the flagstone bailey of the citadel. A wall was erected on either side of the courtyard, creating the impression of a canyon. Hunkered atop the battlement walls were dozens of lumani archers. A smaller host was waiting inside the archway. They parted to let the party through, then closed ranks, creating a wall of shields. Kylick began to bark orders to her men.
Wheezing heavily, Dolum doubled over and began to retch. Bently’s dazed expression revealed that he felt little better. Ivatelo calmly examined the expansive bailey, showing no sign of distress. Desperous finally succumbed to his wounds. He collapsed into Bently’s arms.
“By the gods,” cried Bently, when he saw the extent of Desperous’s injuries. He held up his hand, slick with blood. His face contorted in horror. “Do something,” he demanded of Ivatelo.
Ivatelo set his staff aside and parted the flesh of Desperous’s shoulder, causing a squirt of blood to splash across his chest. Ivatelo maintained the same cool and calculated countenance he always bore, but Desperous could read much from the man’s eyes. The magic was afraid.
“I can stop the bleeding,” said Ivatelo, as the flesh of his
hand took on the hue of ice. Then mumbling almost to himself, he said, “too much blood.” He dourly shook his head. A stabbing pain tore through Desperous’s shoulder, cutting straight to his spine. “Time is all I have given,” said the magic. “We need the Guardian.”
“Now, with haste!” ordered Kylick, ushering them toward a pair of graven ivory doors at the end of the courtyard.
One of the archers atop the wall issued a warning cry.
“Here they come!”
Another replied. “Twenty heads to the east, a score more from the west, twice that number center.”
“Got the left marked.” There was a flurry of activity from atop the battlements. Bow strings twanged. Muffled explosions resounded from the far side of the wall.
“Hit the right!”
“Got ‘em.”
Desperous deliriously watched the precise motions of these warriors, finding himself captivated by their efficiency. He could see now why the lumani were the most feared of the dark children. They were strong where the creatons were weak, wise where the dragoons were brash, fair where the goblins were vicious. This was why their betrayal of the Wyrm had been so significant. If this is what a few dozen could do, he couldn’t imagine the prowess of the grand legions the Wyrm once possessed.
Dolum snapped his fingers before Desperous’s goggling eyes. “We need to keep going,” huffed the dwarf. He latched onto Desperous’s hand and pulled him along.
The clang of metal began to ring behind them. The lumani were holding the enemy at the archway.
“Back, fall back!” called a panicked voice from atop the wall.
Desperous glanced over his shoulder just in time to witness the upper torso of an undead dragon smash through the archway. The lumani phalanx was sent reeling, their shields dented and broken from the savage blow. Arching its body like a stretching feline, the dragon forced its spine-covered back against the bottom of the arch. There was a splintering of stone, a sharp crack, and then the wall exploded upward in a hail of rubble. Carrions flooded into the courtyard, collapsing en masse atop the beleaguered lumani.
The lumani atop the battlements let loose a hail of arrows, creating a pin cushion out of the rampaging dragon. The beast ran to and fro, swiping hapless lumani from the wall, until someone finally managed to release an explosive arrow into the dragon’s flank. Its torso separated from its hindquarters in a flash of blinding light and rotten entrails.
The four creatons pressed on, trying to outpace the battle surging near the mouth of the courtyard. The twin ivory doors of the citadel glowed like a beacon. Safety lie within. They were almost there. Kylick bounded up the stairs with Ivatelo half a step behind her. Dolum and Desperous came next, the dwarf helping Desperous at the base of the stairs. Bently held the rearguard, his sword drawn and pointed at the advancing carrions. But as Kylick reached for the door handle the scent of rot came wafting on an unnatural wind. Out of the sky fell an undead dragon. It perched its black body on the stairs, effectively cutting the party in two. From wall to wall its emaciated body spanned. So close was the beast, Desperous could feel the inferno-like heat radiating off of its body. The vertebrae of its tail stood out like the tips of spears, and the ribs of its barrel chest showed prominently through haggard flesh. Its wings were swept beside its body like tattered banners. Its talons overturned the flagstone steps as it pawed at the earth.
Kylick turned aside from the ivory door and gallantly confronted the dragon, armed with little more than a dirk. She brandished her weapon in the blighted creature’s face. “Fly from here, you cursed spawn!” she screamed.
The dragon lunged, and Kylick ducked back. Her steel flared, scarring the dragon from cheek to brow and severing its eye. The beast reeled away, its head trailing along the ground as if it had no control over its body. It struck into the wall with shattering force, and then bounded down the entrance steps, straight for Dolum and Desperous.
Desperous drunkenly stepped aside, missing the dragon’s sweeping maw, but Dolum was struck squarely in his chest. The dwarf was sent lurching to the ground in a heap. Without pause, the dragon leapt like a cat upon its prey, crushing the flagstone. Dolum rolled from side to side, desperately trying to avoid being trampled. His eyes were that of a dead man; his pupils were black pools, overshadowed by the certain horror of his own fate. The dragon hammered one paw into the ground and then the next, blindly trying to stamp the dwarf out of existence. It would only be a matter of time.
A moment of lucidity cleared Desperous’s clouded mind. Bently hacked into the dragon’s hide to no avail. Kylick was swatted aside by the dragon’s hind leg. Ivatelo appeared to be building a ball of light in his hands, but whatever spell the magic might conjure would come too late. Dolum would be dead.
Desperous had to act, and he did so in a blur. He heedlessly threw his body beneath the dragon, sliding to Dolum’s aid. Scrounging whatever strength he could squeeze from his muscles, he flung the dwarf to safety. Yet there was no such refuge for the elf.
Too slow, Desperous thought bitterly.
The dragon pounced on his chest, pressing him into the flagstone. He tried to scream but nothing came out. His veins felt as if they were to rupture. Then relief.
The dragon reeled back, releasing its grasp. Desperous could faintly feel Dolum struggling to pull him to safety. He attempted to reach out to the dwarf, yet his arm would not raise, his hand would not grasp. The dragon came down with its maw agape.
For a brief moment, Desperous felt the dragon’s teeth plunge into his chest like dozens of serrated daggers. Then with a wicked snap, the dragon swung its head, whipping Desperous from its grasp. The elf’s body flew into the rampart wall with sickening force. With everyone’s eyes glued on in horror, Desperous, Prince of Luthuania, slid to the ground lifeless.
• • •
The din of battle faded, replaced by a collective moan of horror. The dragon loomed over the shattered figure of Desperous as if it were a prize. The elf lay heaped against the marbled wall of the citadel, the splatter of his blood painting a ghastly trail on the white stone.
A rage blinded Bently of all dangers. Letting out a roar of fury, he charged the dragon, his broadsword lifted high. He slashed madly across its pointed beak, cleaving its snout in two. The dragon reeled, frenzied by the attack, and swiped at his head. With teeth bared, Bently struck back, hacking the dragon’s clawed fingers clean from his hand. The dragon rose up on its rear legs, a smoldering slaver dripping from its maw. Dragon fire pockmarked the earth at the creature’s feet. Its head reared back, its mouth opened wide. Bently took two quick strides forward and jammed his sword into the dragon’s chest, sinking it all the way to the crossguard. Vital organs were struck and a flood of fetid blood issued from the wound. The dragon was made lame from the blow, and collapsed to the flagstone, yanking the hilt free of Bently’s hand. The dragon coughed and sputtered, shooting trails of flame across the bailey. Using its one functioning arm, the dragon began to pull its body toward the exit.
Bently snatched up the Razorwind, the blade of his fallen comrade, and trailed after the retreating dragon. “I’m going to take you in pieces, you cursed bitch!” snarled Bently as he pointed the weapon menacingly. He brought the blade into the dragon’s skull, and then again, and again. Each time he struck deeper, through flesh, then bone, then brain, until finally the dragon let out a gurgled squeal and went still, its body a scarred vestige of its former self.
A trill blast from a horn reverberated throughout the courtyard, calling a sudden end to the violence. The carrions gave up whatever task they were involved in and began to retreat through the broken archway. In less than a minute the courtyard was empty, save for the lumani and the remains of shattered bodies. With a broken heart, Bently guessed why the enemy had sounded the retreat. They had accomplished all that needed to be done. The elf was dead. The Guardian could not be awakened.
In a daze, Bently paced to and fro, transfixed by the horror that had just occurred. His clothes were sodd
en with the foul blood of his foe. Only Dolum’s woeful moan brought him to his senses. Holding his hand mournfully across his brow, Bently staggered to Desperous. Ivatelo and Dolum were already set over the elf’s still and broken form.
“Is he...?”
Ivatelo shook his head, his expression was a mask of pain. He leaned down and gently ran his fingers across Desperous’s face, guiding the hemorrhaged eyes closed.
Kylick approached. She limped somewhat, but seemed to be otherwise fine. Her face was grave. “Without the elf, all else is lost. The seal cannot be broken, the Guardian will remain in stasis.” She gestured over her shoulder to her gathering soldiers. “My men are injured and will not be capable of fending off another attack, we must flee the citadel while we still can.” She turned to leave, then added, “I am truly sorry.”
“Then they have won the day,” murmured Ivatelo. “And I fear to say much more than that.”
Dolum hid his face behind his hands, blocking his tears from view.
A cold hush fell over the gathering, but Bently wasn’t done. His mind raced feverishly. “You’re a magic, damn it, do something.” Bently paused, fearful of what he was about to suggest. “You could leave him free of will, make him like he was before.”
“I couldn’t,” said Ivatelo, looking away. He held his hands up dismissively and turned, walking away. “I’m sorry.”
“This isn’t over,” cried Bently. “It’s not ending here.” He jumped to his feet and stalked after Ivatelo. From the corner of his eye he imagined he saw his wife sadly shaking her head. He ignored the apparition. “Do you not understand the implications of this? We need the Guardian or our cities will be laid to waste, the land reduced to ruin, our people massacred. Can’t you see the horror that is to come?”
Ivatelo turned and stared him dead in the eyes. “I have seen horrors your mind could scarcely imagine, Captain Bently. Do not mistake me for a daft old man. I understand the implications of this as much as anyone, yet I cannot do what you ask of me.”
The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2) Page 21
