He paced for a moment, before looking up with a strange glimmer in his eyes. “What of the boy? Did Khelvar at least secure the brat?”
With his cheeks wet from tears, Phalstave stammered, “K-Khelvar is d-dead, your Majesty.”
Sargon sighed––a horrific sound that reminded Phalstave of his recurring nightmare of the fiery depths of Urkalla––and went back to pacing. “That figures. What should I have expected, sending a child to do a god’s work?”
The shadow mage fell silent. Only the whispered swishing of his shadowy robe as he paced, broke the silence of the chamber. The grinning guard took a step closer, caressing the steel of his gleaming axe.
Without warning, Sargon glided over and grabbed onto the collar of the frightened and trembling man. “Who is the new king? Tell me!”
Phalstave sobbed. “His n-name is G-Gilmoure. Son of…oh I don’t know. He is a c-commoner, sponsored by some noble. I’m so sorry sire, I don’t know anymore. P-Please don’t kill me! I will do anything, anything!”
Sargon grimaced in disgust and released the sniveling wretch. Phalstave felt his knees give way, and he collapsed to the floor sobbing as Sargon glided back to the proud basalt throne and sat back down. The guard flexed and stepped forward, lifting his axe in preparation for the order to execute the sobbing man.
“Hold,” Sargon croaked. “Get up, worm!”
Phalstave reluctantly scrambled to his feet, sniffling loudly and wiping his wet face with his sleeve.
“You have access to the palace still. Go and find out all you can of this new king. He will do my bidding, or die! And fetch me that boy while you’re at it.”
Phalstave felt a glimmer of hope course through him. “Y-Yes your majesty, yes of course! Anything for you, sire. I will do it on my…”
“Life…yes, I will hold you to that,” Sargon whispered, one corner of his mouth curling up. “Don’t forget the boy. I want him. Now be gone!”
The grin left the face of the axe-wielding guard, and he dropped his weapon to his side in disgust. Phalstave blinked back a tear and bit his lip as the guards grudgingly released him, unable to believe that the shadow mage would let him go. When the sorcerer closed his eyes, seeming to forget about him, Phalstave turned and ran from the throne room as fast as his legs would carry him.
Chapter 7
The craggy basalt rock face extended upward as far as Aldrick could see, disappearing into a thick wall of dark swirling cloud. The rest of his surroundings were shrouded in an impenetrable rolling fog, and his entire world consisted of nothing but the steep cliff on which he climbed. He did not question why he climbed; he only knew he must continue. With cold fingers he sought tenuous handholds in the unrelenting rock, while avoiding patches of ice and loose scree. His logical mind wondered why he felt no fear of falling, but that seemed a distant concern. All he knew with certainty was that atop this mysterious cliff lay the answers he sought.
The living cloud caressed the edges of the world as Aldrick climbed, roiling and spinning with a frigid wind. He shivered from a particularly icy blast, almost losing his grip. The apex seemed unattainable, yet he continued to climb with fierce determination.
The crest appeared abruptly as if summoned by his desire, and Aldrick scrambled up the remainder of the rock face. He pulled himself over the rough edge, and rested for a moment on the top, panting from the effort of the climb. He was tired, but somehow knew that he should not be. Forgetting about his weariness, he stood and began walking forward as the murky swirling cloudbank ahead of him swirled and parted. Straining to see through the opaque barrier, he watched as a dark object slowly materialized out of the whirling fog. He stepped forward and arrived at a massive basalt throne, seemingly carved from the living rock itself.
The throne was still partially obscured by cloud, but he could see a tall, straight-backed man seated atop it, exuding strength and power. Perched atop his noble head was a glowing crown of light, and its luminescence lit the visible world. His features became clear as Aldrick approached, and he recognized his king. Somehow he felt he had known all along whom it was that deserved the reverential seat that stood before him.
King Gilmoure sat upon his throne, staring out directly ahead. He did not appear to be aware of his unusual surroundings, or of Aldrick’s presence.
Aldrick thought to call out, but paused when he noticed a most unusual design embroidered on Gilmoure’s chest. Taking another step forward, he squinted to confirm he had indeed seen it correctly. The dark outline of a bold mountain peak set on a crimson background was emblazoned on his chest. Aldrick knew of only one use of that proud emblem; it was the symbol of Illyria.
Aldrick could not understand why Gilmoure would display that image, when he was he was the king of Asturia, not Illyria. He waved and called to him, but there was no response from the enthroned king. He cupped both hands to amplify his voice, and tried again. “King Gilmoure!”
It was several moments before Gilmoure lowered his eyes and met his gaze. Breaking into a smile, the king stood and leapt down from the mighty throne. “Aldrick, my friend! So good to see you.”
Aldrick was taken aback by his sudden animation. “Gilmoure, what are you doing here?”
Gilmoure looked confused. “Why do you call me by that name?”
Now it was Aldrick’s turn to be confused. “What name should I call you by?”
Gilmoure shrugged, and then laughed as if the entire issue was a joke. Pointing to a spot behind Aldrick he asked, “Are you here to help me fight him?”
Whirling around, Aldrick was stunned to see the unmistakable dark figure of Sargon the Destroyer standing atop a small rise, emanating a reek of decay. There was no indication of the cliff he had just ascended behind the swirling banks of cloud; the dark ground simply stretched evenly until it rose to support the vilest destroyer of nations in memory.
There was a questioning look on the dead gray face of the shadow mage. In a voice that sounded like the opening of a tomb he rasped, “You again. And you brought two playmates with you this time, how very pleasant. Why do you plague me?”
Aldrick thought “two?” and glanced about. Gilmoure still stood to his right as he had expected, with a look of defiance. To his surprise, a vague figure now shimmered on his left, appearing to be in the process of materializing but still difficult to make out. He had no idea who the figure represented, but it was athletic and nearly as tall as he was. His first thought was that it must represent Gilmoure’s friend Warren, but as the shape coalesced, he perceived the figure was that of a woman.
Turning back to face the solitary ebon figure confronting them, he wondered why a villain dead for five hundred long Summers continued to haunt his dreams. Yet somehow he knew that here, in this place, they were sworn enemies.
Gilmoure answered for him. “We defy you!”
The laconic response of his king had the ring of truth, and so he echoed it. “We defy you!”
The feminine figure next to them echoed their cry in a strange, but beautifully lilting voice. “We defy you!”
The visage of the shadow mage twisted from a look of mild irritation into one of consummate anger. His thin lips pulled back in a vicious snarl as he spat, “So, Father has chosen his avatars, though they are unaware of it.” A tall gnarled staff of obsidian abruptly appeared in his right hand. “So be it!”
The sorcerer raised his staff and brought it down with a resounding clang. Black shadow emanated from his outstretched left hand and melded with the still roiling cloud surrounding them. The effect began slowly, but hastened and intensified as he continued banging his staff on the ground rhythmically. The stone hammering of the staff resounded louder and more insistent as the shadow crept around them.
Aldrick barely heard Gilmoure whisper as the world around them slipped into darkness, “Don’t forget Aldrick. I need your help. We must join together, if we are to have any chance…”
And then everything went dark.
***
With
a start, Aldrick awoke to a loud banging at the door. He sat in the daze of sleep for a moment, his memory still clouded with the vision of Sargon. He could not help but wonder why he had dreamed of Sargon again, and what the shadow mage had meant when he spoke of them being chosen. He had not had one of his intense, realistic dreams for some time now, not since the Tournament of the King in the spring. Why now?
A loud banging on the door, more insistent than before coupled with a muffled “Aldrick!” brought him out of his reverie. Grumbling, he rose from his comfortable chair and crossed the room to open the door. Standing there with his fist raised to hammer on the door again was the last person he expected to see, although considering the dream he had just had, perhaps he should not have been surprised at all by the unexpected visitor.
“Gilmoure,” Aldrick noted, standing with one hand on the open door. “What are you doing here?”
“Is that any way to greet an old friend and future traveling companion?” Gilmoure asked, flashing his familiar grin. “What took you so long?”
“I was asleep.”
Gilmoure peered into the room and said, “Sorry to wake you,” although he did not sound all that apologetic. With a sly grin he added, “Are you planning to invite your king inside?”
Aldrick stepped back and held the door open, gesturing for them to enter.
“You remember Warren,” Gilmoure said, ducking slightly as he entered the room.
“Of course, how are you Warren?”
“I’m quite well Aldrick, thank you for asking,” Warren replied, shaking his hand enthusiastically. “I’m tired from the journey, although we’ve only just begun.”
“Going somewhere?”
Warren opened his mouth to reply, but after a stern look from Gilmoure, closed it again. A third man stepped into the doorway and Gilmoure said, “I’m sure you remember Paden. He’s a nice enough fellow, though close-lipped for the most part. Warren could take a few lessons from him.”
Warren stammered at the obvious barb. “I didn’t say anything.”
Aldrick shook his hand. “I remember Paden. My father asked you to follow Jahann.”
“Hello again, Aldrick. We did find Jahann, and followed him as far as Karkerech. We have much to discuss.”
“That is part of why we are here,” interrupted Gilmoure. “Let’s sit.”
Paden told Aldrick, in reply to his inquiry, that the men milling about outside were his associates, and they would remain outside while they talked. The four of them sat around the dining table at Aldrick’s behest, and he poured them all a glass of pomegranate wine.
When no one else spoke, Aldrick broke the silence. “What brings you here?”
Gilmoure drained his glass of wine completely before answering. “I am not certain how to begin.”
“Why not start at the beginning?”
“Yes,” nodded Warren. “At the beginning.”
Gilmoure punched Warren on the arm. “I heard him.”
Warren rubbed his arm dramatically. “Hey, watch it. My arm hasn’t completely healed yet!”
Gilmoure frowned. “That was your other arm.”
“Oh yeah,” Warren said with a sheepish grin.
Aldrick smiled; it seemed some things never changed. “You were saying?”
“Yes, start at the beginning. Here goes. Aldrick, I’m afraid I have not been entirely honest with you.”
“He wasn’t honest with anyone, to be accurate,” interjected Warren.
“Do you mind? I’m trying to explain. The only reason I lied was to protect my identity. I hope you will understand why, once I explain everything.”
Warren nodded in agreement. “You’ll understand.”
In a flash of insight, Aldrick knew part of his secret; he had seen it in his dream. “You are from Illyria.”
Gilmoure could not hide his look of surprise. “How did you know that?”
Rather than answer, Aldrick took another educated guess from his dream. “I’ll also wager that Gilmoure is not your true name.”
The king was clearly stunned. “Correct again, Aldrick. Amazing, you are quite the investigator.”
Aldrick continued, not wishing to explain he had based his suppositions on a dream. “What I don’t know, is what your true name is.”
“I am Prince Garrick from Illyria.”
It was Aldrick’s turn to be surprised. He had known there was more to the unknown Tournament contender than another simple commoner. The man had been too gifted, and his bearing had been too confident, for any commoner he had ever met. He emanated a royal bearing; Aldrick simply had not known how royal his bearing truly was.
Even though he had guessed the king’s secrets, Aldrick was still uncertain how he felt about them. “Please continue.”
And so King Gilmoure––King Garrick now, Aldrick supposed––proceeded to tell his story, starting with the attack on the Gathering in Kishen before the Tournament. With numerous interjections and additions by Warren, he described the death of his father and the usurpation of his kingdom by an unknown, but extremely dangerous doppelganger. He finished with describing Warren’s perilous flight from the corpse filled Gathering and his narrow escape from the blood-soaked attackers responsible for it. Warren had finally found the prince back in his rooms at the palace, and after a stammered account of what had transpired at the Great Hall, the terrified squire had insisted they flee the country together so that they might live to fight another day.
“What I don’t understand,” Aldrick said once Garrick had finished, “was why you joined the Tournament?”
Garrick shifted in his seat. “At first it was merely a lark, just something to pass the time and challenge myself. I was simply bored. I rarely attend public functions in Kishen, so I felt fairly secure that I wouldn’t be recognized. Later, when it became clear I had a real chance of winning, my motivations changed. For two reasons, I believe.”
“Which were?”
“As I came to know the people of Asturia better, people like you Aldrick, I grew an affinity for them. I also learned more about Brodan. I’m sorry Aldrick, I know you and he were friends, but with everything I’d learned about the regent, I felt it would be wrong to stand by and allow him to become king.”
“So it was part concern over the well-being of the people of Asturia, and part…pride,” Aldrick mused.
“Fair enough,” Garrick grinned. “More importantly, I realized as king I would have control of the army. I’ve known from the rumors coming from the north that the monster that killed my father would not stop with conquering Kishen, or indeed Illyria. We will need to prepare the army of Asturia to defend against him. Someday I hope to retake Illyria as well. My fears have now been confirmed by the information that Paden brought back.”
“And what information is that?”
“There is an army gathering near the border, preparing to invade Asturia.”
“Are you certain?” Aldrick asked in disbelief.
“Yes,” Paden interjected. “We followed Jahann to Karkerech, and I overheard him discussing the Clavis with some men he met there. While there, we learned of the massive force being assembled nearby. No one knew, or would speak of the reason for the gathering of so large an army, but all signs point towards the preparation for an invasion. With Jahann apparently having no immediate intention of leaving Karkerech, I thought it best to return and report to Tiberius.”
Aldrick set his glass down on the table. “So Jahann does know he has the Clavis.”
“Your father wisely came and told me everything,” added Garrick.
Aldrick sat back and picked up his wine glass, considering everything he had heard. “This is a lot to absorb. I don’t know what the legal ramifications of your victory under an alias are, but an invasion by Illyrian forces is certainly the larger concern at this time.”
With a grin, Garrick suggested, “A mountain lily by any other name?”
“Why are you telling me about this now?”
Garrick paus
ed and glanced around the table. “I have decided to travel to Karkerech and see this invasion force for myself. Tiberius wished to follow after this Jahann fellow and retrieve your artifact himself, but I ordered him to remain in the palace. I need him to run the country while I’m gone. I did leave him with Jarvus and Gormond for company, however,” he added with a laugh.
“My father told you about the artifact?” Aldrick asked with mild surprise.
“Yes,” Garrick nodded. “Your father and I have spent a great deal of time together since the coronation. At this point, he is the only man in the palace I trust.”
“He must trust you in return.”
“I would like to think so,” Garrick agreed.
The Key of Creation: Book 02 - Journey to Khodara Page 5
