No sign of the assailants could be seen. Then the prince thought his eyes deceived him. For the Grim Reaper congealed out of thin air and stood over the fallen. A scythe blade hovered in the air above the being’s head and he leaned over a fallen warrior. The prince felt his heart stop beating for an instant. He had heard stories of such a being, a being of evil walking the world of Subterran and harvesting the dead in order to feed upon death. But it could not be true. It must not be believed. Evil could not gain such strength. Could it?
As he watched, darkness swallowed the specter of death, wrapping him in its impenetrable cloak. He could see nothing until another bolt struck.
This time he glimpsed a few bodies falling from the sky and heard a screech … half a human scream and half a bird’s cry. Far above his head a thousand wings snapped against the air.
In that moment he saw Xavion’s livid countenance. But greater than the look of fury on the man’s face was the look of horror in his eyes.
Gone, dead, in the blink of an eye every man standing on that field had fallen.
As grief swept over him and his captain, three bolts of green energy fell from the sky, crisscrossing and weaving together on their journey to the earth. Valorian roared and flew into the air, holding the bubble of light before him. The lightning struck the bubble, fed it, grew it until the dragon let it plummet toward the ground. Brian heard the creature roar again and he saw a host of winged men flock to it.
“Art’en!” Now the manner of his fellow warriors’ deaths became apparent to him. The Art’en creatures now circled Valo-rian, screeching horrifically as more of their species congregated around him. There had to be a thousand of them. Maybe more. In the darkness it was impossible to tell.
The phosphorescent energy bubble plummeted toward the stony ground, radiating green on the ground and even reflecting off the cloud cover. It had swelled until it was large enough to house several men. Brian froze. What should he do? There was nowhere he could hide. Not in time at least.
Just as the bubble struck the ground and exploded with stone-crushing force, Xavion leapt in the explosion’s path and wrapped his body around the prince’s. “Xavion! No!”
But Brian could not shift the powerful warrior from the path of destruction. Xavion’s arms held him with fierce resolve. “I will not lose you, too,” he heard the old man say.
Helpless to free himself the prince allowed himself to cry. Trembling, he felt the comfort of Xavion’s arms draw him as a son into his father’s bosom. A wave of heat screamed past him and his mentor. It built in its intensity. Stones exploded by and bodies lit up like matches all around him.
Xavion’s arms squeezed him without mercy until he ventured a look up at his martyr’s face. Blood ran from the captain’s lower lip as his teeth bit into it. Sweat beaded on his face and his skin turned beet red and his eyes squinted shut.
The inferno raged around them and, when Xavion’s pain reached its human limit, he opened his mouth in a scream more terrible than anything the prince had ever heard. The heat singed the graying hairs on his head and face. His skin blistered. Then, as a final tornado of heat whirled around them, the captain’s strength failed. He collapsed in a faint over Brian’s shoulder and the storm ceased.
Winged men rained from the sky a couple hundred feet away, their eagle-brown feathers shivering. They landed crouching and then stood and ran barefooted toward Brian. The majority of the Art’en force landed a good distance away. Only a handful ended up close to the fallen captain and the weakened prince.
Desperate and determined to escape the brutal death awaiting him and the captain, Brian grunted, half-dragging half-carrying the unconscious man. The stony ground impeded his progress and his armor weighed him down.
He glanced over his shoulder to see two of the humanoid creatures closing the distance to him. The ground sloped upward ahead of him and he let Xavion’s limp form roll off his back in order to catch his breath. A small stone mountain rose out of the slope a hundred yards ahead of him. And in its face the Creator had carved a perfectly spherical orifice not more than a few feet broad. It promised shelter.
Spinning on his heel, Brian frowned. Keeping his eyes trained on the two winged figures bounding toward him, he loosed his breastplate. Casting the breastplate aside he took off his helmet and removed his chain mail shirt. He stretched his aching arms and exulted in his newfound freedom of movement. Carefully he picked up his helm and fitted it again over his head. A little protection was better than nothing.
A gust of wind slapped his blond hair across his face. He tucked it under his helm. Sheathing his white-bladed scimitar, he unraveled a whip from his belt and wound it loosely around his wrist. Then he stood with legs spread wide and loosened the black, coiled leather, dropping its length on the ground.
The nearest Art’en bounded nearer, dark wings folded on its back and sinewy arms flexing. Brian let it come no closer. With a flip of his arm and a flick of his wrist he sent the leather snaking through the air. It lashed the humanoid creature around its waist and in that moment the whip, through the power with which it had been crafted, rendered the Art’en weightless.
The creature’s gray skin paled a sickly green and it screeched like a wounded bird. Brian pulled back his arm, drawing the whip taut around his prisoner, then he spun on his heel and threw the weightless Art’en up the rocky slope. The whip released the creature in midair.
The Art’en flailed, its wings unfolded in an attempt to stop its course toward a sharp boulder. But too little distance remained. It hit the boulder chest-first and crumpled to the ground.
Turning, the prince faced the other creature. It had landed and now bounced toward him, screeching so shrilly that Brian almost dropped his weapons to cover his ears. The creature folded its wings around its body, its human arms slipped between the feathers clawing the air in his direction.
Brian recognized this Art’en strategy. He had seen these beings face armored men, carrying no weapons themselves, and prevail. They would leave their upper bodies vulnerable to attack, luring their opponents into striking. But when their enemy swung their weapon the Art’en would drop to the ground, balancing on their hands, and kick both feet into their enemy’s chest.
A strategy such as that, the prince determined, would not work on him. He feinted with his sword as if to cut across the Art’en’s chest. The creature’s mouth stretched into a maniacal grin and it dropped beneath the oncoming blade’s path. But the prince had preceded the creature and he now held the pommel of his sword on the ground … blade pointed at the creature’s chest.
A startled cry escaped the being’s lips as it threw its abdomen onto the blade. The cream-colored metal entered its body and the prince stood up muttering, “Why? Why all this death? Why?” As he watched the winged man twist in death’s throes he gritted his teeth. The world should not be this way. Peace should reign; not suffering.
He felt a little sick to his stomach. Should he end this being’s suffering or leave it to die? But no, he would not murder. He’d acted in self defense but he would not slaughter even one enemy.
The Art’en cried for mercy, holding its wound with weak desperation.
Brian growled and picked up his captain. Anger gave him the extra strength he needed to carry the larger man up the incline and he laid him deep in the cave where not even Valorian could reach.
From outside the cave came the pained cries of the wounded Art’en. Brian left his captain and stood in the cave’s narrow entrance. The clouds thinned overhead, allowing an ethereal glow to cover the landscape. He watched as the remaining Art’en swarmed toward the hill then stopped to screech at him. Their numbers dotted the battlefield for as far as he could see. Their numbers had grown.
The Art’en stopped when they reached their comrade. Brian expected them to stoop down and carry the wounded creature away. Instead the lead creatures jabbed their bare feet into the birdman’s side, cackling when he screeched with renewed pain. Spreading their wings the Art
’en sprang into the air, carrying themselves laboriously toward the darker southern horizon.
Valorian was nowhere to be seen.
Cautiously, the prince stepped out of the cave and glanced up the bare mountainside. The dragon was not there.
He leaned his scimitar against the cave entrance and set his whip next to it. Then, praying to God he would not regret what he was about to do, he skidded downhill and knocked the wounded Art’en unconscious with his fist and rolled it onto his shoulders. The creature proved awkward to carry. Its wings dragged on the ground and its sinewy form threatened to slip off his shoulders every step he took. But he at last reached the cave entrance and dropped the wounded individual as gently as possible.
Something thudded onto the slope and Brian turned to face a blast of air. The dragon Valorian loomed there, dark eyes furious. He roared deep and long, mouth agape, until sparks flared in its slippery throat. “Puny and weak human … tell me what you have done with thy commander’s body and I will spare thee a test of fire!”
Brian’s heart beat furiously in his chest. He froze, unable to answer and not knowing what to do.
“Tell me!” Valorian balled his claws into a fist and pounded the hillside, crushing the stones into pebbles.
Scooping his weapons with one hand and grasping the wounded creature’s shirt with the other, the prince dragged both deeper into the cave and around a bend. He leaned the Art’en against the cave wall a short distance from the wounded captain. They would be safe here for the time being.
Dull thuds echoed into the cavities and tunnels branching from the cave as Valorian drove his wrath into the mountainside. But the stone rose solid around Brian, concealing him and Xavion.
Time passed and the cave grew quiet. Brian removed his armor and tore his shirt into bandages. Xavion’s noble face now bore burns of such severity that his flesh reeked.
Tearfully, the prince stumbled in the dimness until he heard a faint trickling of water. He found an underground stream and soaked his torn shirt in it. Then, returning to his captain, he gently cooled the man’s face. Skin peeled away from the man’s flesh.
No. No. Oh Xavion, I am so sorry. Brian sobbed. His hands trembled as he withdrew the cloth from Xavion’s face and looked upon that of the warrior. The face that he knew and loved had been exchanged for a face of horror, of seared flesh.
And the prince wept.
That night strong winds whistled through the prince’s hiding place. Xavion awoke. His blood-shot eyes slowly took in their surroundings and his gaze hesitated on the wounded Art’en. He grasped the prince’s shoulder with his mutilated hand and wearily nodded.
“It’s good to see you,” Brian choked out, resting his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“You … have you …” Xavion spat blood and coughed. “Have you cared for the creature?”
“Yes, Master.” Brian followed the man’s gaze back to the Art’en. Its chest rose and fell with difficulty. “I could have killed him. But—”
“But then you,” the captain coughed, “would be no better than he … And—”
Brian allowed himself to smile and he answered the question as his mentor had before instructed him to: “And why would God grant mercy to me, who was His enemy, if I do not demonstrate forgiveness to my enemies.”
They sat there for a while, neither speaking. Xavion spat more blood and groaned as he rested his head against the cave wall.
“Try to stay still.” Brian put a freshly wetted cloth on the man’s forehead and another on his raw neck. “You must sleep.
“Reinforcements will come. The white dragon will see to it … And Kesla and the rest of the Six are due to arrive any day. Even Valorian would think twice before coming at us again when we are in their company.”
Xavion’s eyelids shut, squeezing drops of blood between them. Brian dabbed them with a cloth to keep the blood from caking the man’s eyes closed. Then he grabbed his weapons, tiptoed through the cave and stood guard in the shadow of its entrance. A crescent moon painted the battlefield misty blue.
For several hours he stood and then his weary body convinced him to lean against the cave wall. A couple hours later he slid into a sitting position and closed his eyes. He only needed a minute … maybe not even that long … oh how he longed to sleep. The silent moon drew longer shadows outside and a weak wind breathed across the landscape, nudging the stench of death ahead of it.
The prince fell asleep and dreamed of Prunesia, the land of his birth. He saw his father sitting upon the pale-yellow throne in Millencourt Hall. The doors at the far side of the long hall lumbered open and blinding white light shot through. The king’s courtiers gasped and backed to the walls, bowing their heads. His father stood and the hunch in his back became painfully apparent as he limped forward.
“Mighty prophet,” the king bowed his head. “Welcome to my humble hall.”
The king and all in attendance waited.
At last a dragon’s roar pierced the quiet. It shook the hall to its foundations, bringing everyone except the king to their knees. The creature roared again and Brian felt the pain wrenching at its noble heart. The dragon emerged then, its pure white scales pulsated with light as it angled its bony head downward. Its pink eyes focused on the king.
“My dear friend and ally.” The dragon growled as tears flooded down its face. It opened its maw as if to continue, then ground it shut. Its wings unfolded from its sides, unveiling the body of a youth wrapped in them. The dragon set the body on the stone floor in front of the king and withdrew its wings.
The king’s knees shook as he looked at the body. He sank to the floor, burying his face in the corpse’s chest. His hunched shoulders shook and his crippled form wept. Then the king turned his face upward as if seeing through the rafters to the heavens … and he screamed with rage.
And the dragon looked on and his tears flowed like a flood around the king. Brian’s heart broke at the sight and he tried to approach his father to comfort him, but when he looked at the body his father held he fell back. For the body was his own.
The crippled king screamed again with strength born of pain beyond reckoning. And the dragon, that noble white creature, roared with such terrible power that the walls cracked and began to crumble, falling toward the king’s courtiers.
The prince fought with his nightmare and at last awoke. The light of the moon had waned; perhaps due to moisture accumulation in the atmosphere. Mist roiled over the ground, veiling it.
Whatever the cause he thought he detected movement on the slope. Could it be a trick? Valorian was cunning. Maybe the black dragon intended to slip his agents into Brian’s cave by hiding them in the mist.
Not on my watch. The prince closed his fingers around the handle of his sword.
A human figure rose out of the mist not ten feet away. “Brian, is that you?”
“Kesla?” Relief washed over Brian like a warm blanket. The man was like a second father to him. Four other warriors stood in the mist behind the first. “Thank God you have come!” The prince relaxed his hand, let go of his scimitar and stood.
He beckoned them into the cave and led the way to Xavion. “The captain is …” He stopped outside the cavern sheltering the wounded warrior. “Well,” he said, “you will have to see for yourself.”
One of the other men strode faster and looked down at the prince. “He is wounded? Where is he? Let me see him now!”
Kesla’s arm smote the man solidly in the chest. “Speak out of turn again, Letrias, and I will make certain you regret this trip.”
Letrias laughed and looked up at Kesla. “Watch your tongue, warrior. The future belongs to me.”
“Kesla?” Xavion’s weak voice sounded from the dark chamber.
“Yes, my captain. It is me.” Kesla drew his sword from its sheath. Its blade glowed, illuminating the cave and the bloodied body of the revered warrior as he lay on the stone floor. To his right the Art’en’s eyes glowed like a cat’s.
“What is that
doing here?” Letrias demanded. He too drew his glowing blade from its sheath and behind him three other blades split the darkness.
Auron, Hestor, and Clavius formed a half-circle behind Kesla, Brian, and Letrias. Brian smiled down at his captain. “They have come, my master.”
Xavion’s mutilated face slowly wandered over each of his men. Then his eyes closed as if lacking the strength.
The men let out long breaths as Kesla knelt next to Xavion. Then Clavius and Hestor joined arms with Letrias and Auron, forming a human litter. Brian and Kesla hefted the captain into their arms and watched them walk out of the cave.
Brian tried to tell Kesla how relieved he was to see him, but the man averted his eyes. “Kesla, what is wrong?”
“Darkness has fallen, young prince,” the warrior said. “And I do not expect to see the return of light.” He lifted the Art’en with ease and left the cave. The prince followed.
Dawn’s first rays of light glowed in the east, but clouds hung in the sky.
The warriors dropped Xavion on the stony ground. His eyes popped open and he screamed with pain. Brian drew his sword and ran to assist his captain. But Letrias stood in his path and laughed, pointed his blade at the prince’s chest. “Do it, Kesla.”
Brian heard the Art’en shriek and glanced over his shoulder just as Kesla pulled his blade out of the creature’s heart. Kesla gazed back at Brian, his eyes downcast.
“What have you done?” The prince took a step away from Letrias. Auron, Hestor, and Clavius encircled him. Kesla cut off his escape. They drew their crystalline swords.
But a figure rose behind Auron and Letrias. “Traitors!” Xavion’s bleeding fists smote the men in their backs, sending them to the ground. The captain stumbled but drew his sword and stabbed Clavius in the leg. His disfigured face could not cry, even as he grabbed Brian with one arm and shielded him with his body.
Swords of the Six (The Sword of the Dragon) Page 2
