“You can and you will!” snapped Bently. “Desperous lived his life for the greater good. If he passes over now, it will all have been in vain. We will fail.”
Bently made no mention of his own sacrifice, nor his own futile attempt to justify his past decisions. The burning willow flared in his mind. He had abandoned his family due to a false sense of duty. If he failed now it would all prove to be a grand farce, a cruel joke. He imagined the necromancer’s sneering face, and his fists clenched white about the blood soaked handle of the Razorwind.
“If I bring him back I am committing him to a life of eternal damnation,” said Ivatelo. His eyes were now shadowed, on the verge of tears. “He will seem as he was before, but never the same.”
“How can you know this?” cried Bently.
Ivatelo shook his head and cast his gaze aside. “Let the truth be known.” He tore open his robe and exposed his chest. All who bore witness to the sight fell hushed. Ivatelo’s chest was an unnatural blackish hue. There was no mistaking what he was.
Bently staggered back and pointed the Razorwind. “Blessed Guardian, by my hand you will die here!”
Ivatelo did not cow in the slightest. He gently guided the blade aside, and looked to Bently with saddened eyes. “Do you truly think that blade will do any good? I am an accursed one, left to wander this world until the end of days.”
“Then who are you?”
“A friend,” was all Ivatelo could manage. He shook his head in despair. “I know this evil you battle all too well, I only wanted to help. Right a most grievous wrong, I owe that...” His voice trailed off, his eyes drifted.
There was the truth of it.
“You know this necromancer,” said Bently. He couldn’t hide the desperation in his voice. “I ask you then, and need you to answer in greatest sincerity, can we defeat this demon without the Guardian?”
Ivatelo could only shake his head in reply.
“Then you know what must be done.”
Ivatelo looked into Bently’s eyes with disdain. “So be the will of the many.” He pushed past Bently and knelt at Desperous’s side. He laid his hand firmly upon the elf’s chest. A faint glow emitted from his palm, spreading over Desperous’s writhen frame and then surging back to its source in a blinding flash. With the deed done, Ivatelo rose and wiped his hands clean.
Dolum knelt next to Desperous with his mouth agape. Desperous lay unmoving. “Are you finished?” whispered Dolum. In a horrific spasm his question was answered.
Desperous’s eyes opened, rolling wildly in their sockets. His body arched like a drawn bow. He fell back to the earth convulsing. Blood began to gurgle from his throat in spurts. Dolum stumbled away in fright, kicking frantically against the flagstone.
Bently fell to Desperous’s side, supporting the elf’s head on his lap.
Desperous sputtered out, “I can’t breathe,” as blood continued to pool within his throat.
“You’ll grow used to it,” muttered Ivatelo solemnly. He turned and walked away.
Bently stayed at Desperous’s side, struggling to clean away the blood and calm his friend’s quaking frame. Across from him, his wife looked on with scornful eyes. She reached into the gaping hole of her chest, and carefully cradled something in her hands. With arms extended, she cupped her lifeless heart, holding it out as an offering to Bently. He refused to look up and bear her grim face; he refused to accept the resignation of her gesture. Bently twitched trying to shake the image.
Desperous moaned.
Bently busied himself cleaning Desperous’s face. “You’re going to be alright,” he reassured himself. “Everything is going to be alright.”
CHAPTER
XXIV
THE GUARDIAN
“Can he walk?” Kylick’s voice was stern, seemingly without care for the tragedy she had just witnessed.
Bently appeared inconsolable, and didn’t so much as lift his head to look at the lumani. Dolum realized he had to act. Fear gave way to a sense of responsibility, and Dolum came to Desperous’s side. Finding a point on the elf’s arm that was not drenched with blood, he gingerly helped Desperous to his feet. Bently copied his motions in a stupor.
One glance at Desperous’s eyes caused Dolum to shudder. From lid to lid they were black pools. “We...we need to go into the tower now, Desperous,” stammered Dolum. He looked around the limp figure to Bently. Bently’s drooping head was focused on the flagstone.
“Come on, mate.” Dolum led them step by painful step to the white tower. They stopped before the double doors. For the first time, Dolum was actually close enough to see what was etched into the door face. The ivory doors were carved with images of battling serpents. Guardians against Wyrm, an eternal struggle in which neither side appeared to be winning. But one figure, wreathed in a halo of flame and lightning, stood supreme above all others. Its body was the shape of a man, but its head was that of a bear, and antlers sprung from his crown. His toes sprouted into knotted roots that delved into the earth and were beset by worms and gangrel creatures Dolum could not name. He recognized the bear-faced man. This was Paseran, the dark god who balanced the light. It was Paseran who closed the heavens to the living. It was Paseran whom the Wyrm served. It was Paseran whom the Weaver broke. It was Paseran who still lurked in the shadows of nightmares. Paseran, the evil that takes children in the night. Paseran, the myth. Dolum frowned. Because Paseran was just that, a story used to scare small children. But he can’t be just a story, realized Dolum. Why else would the Guardians have etched him into this relief, as if he were the one orchestrating all the madness?
Dolum laid his hand against the etching, running his fingers along the antlers and snarling face. The Shadow be praised, thought Dolum reflexively, as if some base instinct had been awakened in his head. He felt a shiver work its way through his frame. “Just a myth,” he reassured himself.
Kylick shooed his hands from the graven image, scowling at him as if he had just committed sacrilege.
Dolum shrunk away from her touch, feeling foolish and guilty. He hitched his arm snuggly around Desperous’s body, using the elf’s frame to conceal his own face.
Kylick snorted with contempt, then parted the ivory doors.
The chamber within was luminous. Everything was a brilliant white; white marble, white crystal, even white gold. Looking glass lined the interior wall, creating a surreal collage of reflections. A pair of concentric circles stood at the center of the chamber. The first was made by the pillars of a colonnade; each pillar rose straight through the core of the building, hundreds of feet up, until they disappeared at the apex of the structure, forming an oculus through which the sun’s rays entered the building. The inner circle consisted of two dozen marble thrones, each fastidiously crafted with scenes from nature; wild animals, lush forests, tumultuous seas, mountain crags. The black coils of a serpent snaked about the entablature topping the colonnade. It stood out like obsidian against the mute backdrop. Its wings entwined overhead, forming a domed canopy. The slender neck snaked down one of the columns, passing along the floor, until ending with its upright head set ceremoniously at the center of the room. It served as a pedestal, and perched within its clenched teeth was a large red jewel. The light of the sun filtered through a hole between the wings setting the stone ablaze.
Kylick had halted beside the door jamb. “I can guide you no further; only the chosen ones are granted entrance into the holy temple. Those who are pure of mind, heart, and cause.” She bowed to the serpentine icon, then departed, shutting the door with a clack.
Bently crossed himself, his hand shaking tremulously. It was clear he knew no better than Dolum what they were supposed to do next. Dolum looked to Desperous, uncertain of what they could expect of the elf in his current state. “Desperous, we need you right now, can you help us?”
Desperous’s black eyes shifted slowly to his comrade. “Look for an inscription...”
“What?”
“A reading, a prayer.”
“H
old him,” instructed Dolum. He searched the central pedestal created by the stone head. There were words finely etched into the surface of the gemstone. “There’s a reading here. Ravi...ehi...sep.” He looked back to Bently. “It’s Eremor script. I know the runes enough to sound it out. But that’s all the use I am. I can’t comprehend it.”
“It’s your time,” said Bently to Desperous.
Desperous freed himself from Bently’s grasp, and with shuffling steps, he walked to the statue. He left a trail of red across the brilliant stone at his feet. He gripped the pedestal for support, but even as he did he began to quake. His brow furrowed in concentration and slowly the seizure subsided. Having regained his composure, Desperous ran his hand gingerly over the red jewel and examined the arcane script. He quietly began to read aloud the words of the passage, pausing every few words to catch his breath.
“Ravi ehi sep, rusin dantit hes
Ep lep di lu mater ise issur
Lep issanit per hasropat tiapin...”
The script went on like this for some time, ebbing and flowing to a peculiar rhythm. Only after Desperous had finished reciting the text did anyone dare breathe.
“What does that mean?” asked Dolum.
Desperous smiled, although it appeared that it pained him to do so. “It’s a riddle,” he finally answered.
“A riddle?”
“Aye.” He translated the passage for all else to hear;
“Bring me one of each of the sundered spirit
One who is pure of soul and wise of tongue
Who will whisper into the deaf ear’s mind
One who is steady of heart and stern of hand
Who is fated to touch in numb grasp
One who is sincere of cause and keen of gaze
Who has the strength to behold in blind faith
Bring all and gather around my holy vestige
Then might my call be heralded from every peak
And behold for I have returned.”
“They speak of us,” said Dolum. “They’re instructions.”
“Doubtlessly,” answered Bently. “But what do they mean?”
“There are other words etched into the gemstone. They’re in the script of Eremor as well,” said Desperous. “I think it’s a chant. I recognize the rhyme pattern from my studies of the Book of Requiem.”
“A voice for deaf ears,” said Bently. He leaned forward and examined the odd script. “What about the other two directions?”
“Let’s just give it a try and see what happens,” said Dolum, giving into his Halgan instinct that action was always better than inaction.
Desperous began to chant softly, his voice rising and falling with the pattern of the script. Surprisingly, there was no hint of pain in his voice, just the sonorous tenor of his prayer. The foreign words resonated beautifully, oddly amplified and sustained within the hollow core of the tower. As he listened to Desperous’s song, Dolum momentarily felt himself transcend through time. He envisioned a score of Guardians, each seated upon an ivory throne, unifying their voices as one. This tower was an instrument for the world. He shuddered at the possibilities. Desperous sang the last note. The echo of his voice receded. Nothing happened.
“What now?” asked Bently. “We’re missing something.”
Dolum stared at the pedestal, thumbing his chin pensively. He softly repeated the directions. A grin crossed his lips.
“Pure of soul and wise of tongue; that’s Desperous and the elves,” began Dolum. “Sincere of cause and keen of gaze; that’s surely the race of men. And who’s more steady of heart and stern of hand than a dwarf.” He placed his palm flat against the gemstone.
The red stone wicked away beneath his touch as if it were made of wax and suddenly burst into a flare of light. The flash pulsated outward, spinning rapidly until it engulfed all within the room. A crack echoed through the chamber; it sounded as if the foundation of the citadel had just been shorn in two. The earth shook and a great wind howled through the oculus, creating a vortex that sucked all into the blinding light. Dolum felt his feet fall out from beneath him and his head struck the ground. Then, in a burst, everything went black. Darkness and silence ensued.
• • •
Dolum staggered to his feet to discover a radiant figure standing where the pedestal had previously been. He had the likeness of an elderly man; a thin jaw, a narrow nose, deep piercing eyes, and a crown of hoary gray hair that was knotted with red ribbons. His pale skin was oddly smooth for one so aged, and it reminded Dolum of how the dragon folk looked when they wore their creaton guise. He was draped in a cassock robe, similar in color to the cloaks worn by the lumani, although his was far more exquisite. The fabric was damasked, woven with silver thread that was fashioned into ornate script. It granted him the appearance of being wreathed in words.
Bently was already kneeling before the demigod, with his head lowered all the way to the ground. “Your Grace,” was all the man could manage.
Dolum fumbled through the gestures of a supplicant, awkwardly emulating Bently’s practiced motions. His father had scorned the gods, and he had never spent a minute of his life within a temple. From the corner of his eye he saw that Desperous was unbowed; he stood brazenly before the god.
Yansarian, the last of the Guardians, addressed the three. “To be greeted by the sons of kings is an honor I did not expect to receive. I am truly blessed.” The god’s voice was smooth and comforting, yet there was a distant peril to his tone, like the rumble of thunder on the horizon, and it soon turned against them. “Laveria stands once again united. Yet conditions confound, for I see fear in your eyes. This alliance was a costly one, brought upon only after personal plights on all parts. This allegiance was created in despair, and never in victory will it be sustained. I have been deceived in my summoning.”
Bently raised his hands in a gesture of atonement. “Forgiveness, Your Grace,” entreated Bently, still bowing. “We have only deceived you because of the absolute desperation of the times. Legions of dragoons and carrions have ravaged the lands of Caper and now stand poised to sweep across Halgath and Luthuania. We have deceived you, yes, but our cause is pure and our need sincere.”
Yansarian’s figure suddenly seemed to lengthen, and the light within the tower faded. The demigod cast his cynical gaze from one person to the next. “You admit your fault with open hands, Prince of Man, yet when I look to you I see a viler guilt indeed, for neither the race of man, elf, nor dwarf stands before me unmarred.”
Yansarian’s accusative gaze shifted to Dolum, causing the dwarf to flinch. “I need only to look into your eyes to discover the true treachery of this time. The Guardians of Old laid down their lives to stave off the dire purpose of the Wyserum, yet your people are perverted in cause, following false prophets and divulging in corrupt endeavors. If you cannot be saved from yourselves, what good can I offer?”
“Then you ignore the very beat of the creaton heart.” Dolum stood up defiantly. A coward he might be, but his father had taught him never to accept a scolding on his knees. All heads turned in surprise, hearing the rebuke come from the least likely of voices. “While a cloud of madness has hung over this land for too long, it has not been all-consuming. There is good, every day I see it. Creatons have not given up on themselves. It is easy for a demigod to look down from his lofty perch and pass judgment, yet who is truly at fault; he who commits sin to survive, or he who can right the evils of the world and does nothing?
“Laveria stands at the edge of an abyss. A warlord is poised to plunge the world into darkness. Open your eyes. We are ready and in need. Disparage us and ignore this plea, supposed guardian of the people. Return to your slumber and wait for a truer people to seek you out. It will not happen, for there will no longer be any who remember your name or your message. The dark will consume all, and true savagery will rule the day.”
The shadows in the room lengthened.
Yansarian ominously approached Dolum, his strides slow and purposeful. Dolum
suddenly felt like a froward child and quailed, finding that he had said more than he intended. His feet involuntarily took a step backward.
Yansarian placed a firm hand upon Dolum’s shoulder, halting his retreat. But upon doing so, Yansarian’s demeanor changed. His lips parted in a smile. “The conventional wisdom of a dwarf never ceases to surprise me.” He nodded knowingly. “The dwarf’s heart is true. You will have your champion; I will face this evil.”
Without further comment, Yansarian made for the exit. As he parted the ivory doors the awaiting lumani fell prostrate, bowing in reverence to their god. Yansarian appeared to float down the stairs; the shifting weight of his footfalls were imperceptible to the eye. He halted before Kylick at the base of the stairs.
“Rise, Priestess of Coralan,” cried the puissant lord. His voice was amplified a hundredfold, filling the courtyard in his call. “Rise, Red Guard of the Gods.”
All rose, yet their eyes remained averted.
“My lord, I stand humbly before you,” said Kylick. The stern-faced lumani had a noticeable waver to her voice.
“Has my army been prepared?”
“It has, my lord, yet we have been delayed,” answered Kylick. “The Capernican king betrayed us. Our growth was stunted. We possess only two hundred score prepared to take up arms.”
“It must suffice,” said Yansarian. He turned to the gathering of lumani. “We will venture the River Deep and return to Laveria. The wrongs done by the scourge of the Wyserum will be righted. Before the next moon, the race of dragoons will be wiped clean off the land. Make ready for war.”
The gathering fell into an uproar, and a jubilant chant in a foreign tongue began to echo through the crowd. It grew in intensity until it hummed to a unanimous beat. Pleased, Yansarian strode into the lumani ranks. They parted, forming a lane through which their god could pass. Dolum dumbly followed in the Guardian’s wake, finding himself momentarily enraptured by the demigod. Only one dared to bar Yansarian’s path.
The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2) Page 22
