Alerion drew the two men in close to him so he could explain the spell and what they could expect from it. “Now, we are hoping that he will be alone. I have scryed him several times at this time and he was always asleep. But I dare not scrye him again for it weakens me and I need to rest afterward. I will need my strength to cast the teleportation spell and I want to make sure I’m strong in the event that something goes wrong.” Kiln and Jonas simply looked on and waited for the wizard to continue. “When I cast the spell you will feel somewhat dizzy and a bit weightless. After several seconds of darkness, your eyes will see your new destination. It happens rather quickly and is painless, but it may take a few seconds to feel normal after the dizziness. Do you both understand?”
Jonas and Kiln nodded. Kiln was wearing black leather pants and a light chain mail shirt under his black tunic. His wrists and thighs were protected with metal and leather bands and he wore his long sword and dagger at his belt. His eyes reflected nothing but concentration on the task at hand.
Kiln looked at Jonas. “You ready?”
“I am,” replied Jonas.
“Remember, stay back and alert in case I need you. I will take care of Moredin. If there are minions of the Dark One in that room, take them out. If not, then find the prince while I kill Lord Moredin.” Kiln redirected his gaze to Alerion. “Whatever happens protect yourself. You are the only one who can get us out. If it looks like things are going badly then teleport us back, but only if Jonas and I can’t handle what we find. Do you understand?”
“I do. Are you ready?” asked Alerion.
Jonas and Kiln looked at each other as they gripped their weapons. Jonas nodded in affirmation. “We are,” answered Kiln.
Alerion began to chant. The words sounded elvish to Jonas but he wasn’t quite sure. Jonas was watching Alerion as the wizard closed his eyes and recited the words of power.
After a few moments of chanting everything got a little blurry, just as Alerion said they would. Jonas brought both his hands to his swords and whispered a silent prayer to Shyann just as everything went black. His eyes were open but he couldn’t see anything. He felt light, as if he was nothing but air. The sensation lasted for several moments.
Suddenly light came flaring back to him as his eyes adjusted to his new surroundings. His head spun a little but thankfully he regained his senses in a matter of seconds.
Then it struck him. If Moredin was sleeping in his tent, then why was there so much light in the room? As his brain quickly processed this information, he instantly dropped his mind into the state of Ty’erm.
The answer to his question was quickly revealed. The situation appeared in slow motion. He saw Kiln to his left and Alerion to his right. But standing right before them was Lord Moredin, Prince Bomballa, a huge orc, and a dark cleric of Dykreel. Jonas recognized the red spiked halo that was painted on the black breastplate that the cleric wore, the mark of Dykreel, master of torture and pain. They were standing around a table going over what looked like battle plans. The surprised looks on their faces clearly told Jonas that they were not expecting guests.
Kiln and Jonas exploded into action, launching forward like striking adders, their blades leaping into their hands. A part of Jonas’s mind heard Alerion muttering behind him, preparing another spell, but it was a distant sound as he concentrated on the task at hand.
Lord Moredin’s eyes opened widely in surprise as he frantically jumped back from the table while trying to draw his long sword. He screamed for help at the top of his lungs. “Guards! Help! We’re under attack!”
Prince Bomballa, wearing his typical garish outfit of teal and purple, reacted with lightning speed, his thin rapier materializing in his hand as he jumped backwards to create more space between him and his attackers.
The gigantic orc was slower, the surprise of the appearance of three men in the tent still registering in his tiny brain. But he was Ongesett, chief of the orcs, and he was a warrior tried in many battles. He stumbled backwards and reached for his heavy morning star that was leaning against the table near him.
Kiln assessed the three men quickly and perceived Prince Bomballa as the most serious threat. In a blur of motion his arm flashed to the side, hurling his dagger at the flashy clothed warrior. Simultaneously he leaped onto a nearby chair with his left foot, jumped onto the table with his right, launching into the air directly toward the stumbling Lord Moredin. Kiln’s long sword arced through the air, leaving a trailing path of green light as his blade sought its target.
As Kiln and Jonas sprung into action, Alerion heard commotion behind him as Lord Moredin yelled for help. He had two choices, abandon the mission and teleport them back, or somehow seal off the tent so that Jonas and Kiln could do their job without guards storming in and overwhelming them all.
Thinking of his prince, he chose the latter. Alerion concentrated on a spell until he remembered the necessary words of power to bring forth the magic that he needed. He began to chant, focusing on saying the words exactly, and after a few seconds he released the energy of the spell with a wave of both hands and the final word, “Fulstarris”, the word for fire.
Lord Moredin’s eyes went wide with terror as he tried to get his blade up to deflect the impossibly fast warrior that was flying through the air at him. All he could do was trace the arc of green light with his eyes as he felt a tight, hot pressure, and then a release at his throat. Lord Moredin’s head flung backwards, tenuously hanging on by pieces of skin and flesh, his life blood showering the legendary swordsman as he landed lightly on his feet.
Jonas moved with liquid grace, leaping at the surprised cleric, both swords spinning their dance of death. The cleric unsheathed a coal black blade with a wickedly curved edge. He got the blade up just in time to block Jonas’s first strike. Sparks flew as the two magic blades clashed. Jonas knew that the cleric’s blade had been forged with dark magic and that the slightest cut would cause damage and pain to him, but be deadly to others. The dark cleric was not wearing his helm but he was protected by his cursed armor. Everything he wore had sharp edges and spikes, any of which could be used as a weapon. His gauntlets were covered with spikes as were his wrists, shins, and greaves. His skin was pale and his eyes burned with madness. He looked almost skeletal except for the straggly black hair that draped his scalp. But he was a powerful cleric and a warrior of Dykreel. He would not be defeated easily.
Jonas’s second blade just missed the cleric’s head as the dark warrior ducked under the deadly sword. The cleric then punched his spiked gauntlet at Jonas’s exposed stomach.
Jonas had been moving forward on the offensive as the unexpected punch flew out. But few were as quick and agile as Jonas. At the last second, he pivoted his body at a seemingly impossible angle and the cleric’s fist glanced off his cuirass. Jonas, trained by Kiln, moved instinctively with little thought of his next move. Kiln had taught him that for every action there is a reaction, and for every reaction there is an action. Every move has a counter and every counter has another counter. Jonas had trained daily so that his body would react appropriately to all situations.
His training paid off as his body moved without thought. He stepped forward, past the punch, and rammed his elbow into the face of the stunned cleric. The man’s head snapped back violently as his nose shattered under a spray of dark blood. Jonas was just about to finish him off with a reverse swing of his lead blade when the cleric bellowed a word of power.
“Kularc!” he screamed as he fell backwards. Instantly a wall of energy struck Jonas like a hammer and he flew backward landing on his back. But Jonas went with his momentum, rolling backward and coming up lightly on his feet. The wind was knocked from him and he took a couple of seconds to catch his breath.
As Alerion finished his spell, a huge wall of fire erupted at the entrance to the tent. The wall was four paces high and five paces wide. Alerion used his hands to control the fire, continuing the magical wall of flame all the way around the perimeter of the tent. He kept the flame
s just beyond the reach of the thick canvas that made up the tent. The last thing he wanted was for the tent to burn and drop on top of them. There was no way any guard could reach them as long as the flames stayed intact, a relatively easy task for the powerful wizard. And Alerion knew that they would not risk firing arrows into the flames because of the risk of hitting their lord.
Alerion turned around quickly to see how he might continue to help the two warriors. His eyes widened with fear as he gazed upon a huge orc running toward him swinging a spiked ball on a chain.
Kiln felt an object hit his back followed by a sharp pain just as Lord Moredin’s lifeless body hit the floor. He spun around to see Prince Bomballa standing behind him.
“I thought I’d give you your dagger back,” the black man said with a smirk.
Kiln reached back over his left shoulder and felt a knife embedded there. It was a shallow wound for his chain mail shirt had deflected most of the power. The prince must have deflected the blade, or even caught it. This warrior would be no easy kill thought Kiln as he reached back and pulled the blade out, showing no sign of pain.
“I appreciate your concern. I’d hate to lose my favorite knife,” Kiln replied, his face still and cold.
“You are Kiln,” Bomballa said, “thought to be the best swordsman ever to walk Kraawn.”
“You are about to find out the truth of those words,” Kiln replied smoothly. Bomballa smiled in retort and attacked the swordsman with his thin rapier. The man was lightning fast, and his light sword enabled him to move even faster. Kiln spun both his blades, creating a whirling wall of razor sharp steel. Their swords met again and again, neither warrior able to score a hit.
Jonas had moved to attack the dazed cleric when he saw the massive orc out of the corner of his eye. The beast was bearing down on the weaponless wizard, its huge morning star spinning, making a loud whirling noise that could be heard above the burning flames.
Jonas had to quickly slow the orc and then dispatch the cleric. He concentrated on the energy in front of the orc, creating an invisible wall. The orc’s morning star hit the wall first, bounced back, and smacked the creature in the chest. The beast stumbled backwards, a look of utter confusion on his face.
Alerion had already begun his own spell right as the orc’s morning star hit the invisible wall and bashed him in his own chest. He didn’t wait to ponder his luck as he unleashed the spell at the confused orc.
“Zithara Um Toric!” he screamed as he directed a crackling bolt of lighting from his fingers into the chest of the astonished orc. The sizzling bolt struck the giant orc solidly in the chest, arcing back and forth across its metal armor. The power of the bolt sent the orc stumbling backwards where it tripped and fell hard on its back. The smell of burnt flesh and hair permeated the tent as the chief of orcs cooked inside his armor.
Jonas turned back to the dark cleric just as the warrior of Dykreel regained his footing. Jonas wanted to end this fight quickly so he called upon Shyann to bring forth his God Fire. The energy built up quickly within him until it felt like he would explode. He pointed his right sword at the cleric and unleashed the power, directing a cone of blue flame that completely engulfed the cleric.
The cleric must have simultaneously called on the power of Dykreel, for the flames parted around him as he held his sword in front of him like a shield. Jonas stopped the flames and the man stood before him, unharmed and smiling wickedly.
“You will need more than that to stop the might of Dykreel,” he muttered, his voice low and dark.
“I don’t need magic to stop you. My swords will suffice.” Jonas spun his blades in unison and attacked the cleric. The cleric brought up his blade defensively and fought hard to keep Jonas’s deadly blades away from him, but Jonas was relentless in his attack.
He flicked his left blade across the pale cheek of the cleric opening up a shallow cut, the red blood from the wound standing out sharply against the pale skin. The cleric grimaced and jabbed his sword forward, toward Jonas’s groin. Jonas turned, stepping back and reversing his right sword to block the stroke. As Jonas deflected the blade, he flicked his left sword across the other cheek of the enraged cleric, opening up another thin cut.
The cleric growled in anger, lifted his sword, and started a powerful downward stroke. But the attack never finished. Jonas quickly lanced his left sword forward into the exposed part of the cleric’s armpit, where his shoulder plate fastened to his chest plate. The thick wool under the cleric’s armor provided no protection against Jonas’s sword.
Jonas drove the sword in deep, right through his lungs and heart. The cleric’s eyes widened in surprise and pain, his sword held high above his head. Jonas withdrew the razor sharp steel quickly just as the evil cleric dropped his sword behind him. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the perfect narrow slit under his arm, and then he fell to the ground.
Kiln fought furiously to keep the razor sharp sword away from his flesh. The man was a master swordsman; there was no doubt. Bomballa had backed Kiln up next to the flames and Kiln grimaced as he felt the heat from the magic fire singe his back.
Alerion had brought forth the fire to keep the guards at bay, but unfortunately it was becoming a problem for Kiln as well. But Kiln concentrated on every move that the man made, trying to find his weakness. When two master swordsmen meet in battle, there are many things that can decide the outcome of the fight. The variables are endless, conditioning, similarity of styles, and ability to control one’s emotion to name just a few.
Kiln was an expert swordsman, but his real skill came in reading his opponent. In the state of Ty’erm, emotion never controlled him. He could focus on every move and every counter. Kiln also knew that no one had better stamina then he. Years of training gave him complete confidence in his abilities to defeat another master swordsman.
After several minutes of trading blow for blow, Kiln began to notice Bomballa’s weakness. He favored his right hand and he signaled a left flank attack by slightly raising his left hand. It was very subtle and most people would never have noticed it.
Kiln smiled inwardly as he waited for the signal and his opening. It wasn’t long before it came. Bomballa’s left arm lifted up slightly and Kiln moved in fast. It was a dangerous maneuver because if he was wrong he would be lining himself up for a forward thrust and the wound would be fatal.
But he wasn’t wrong. Bomballa lifted his left hand and simultaneously swung his blade toward Kiln’s left flank. Kiln read the move ahead of time and stepped aside and toward the surprised warrior, ramming his dagger deep into Bomballa’s unprotected stomach as his thin rapier hung uselessly over Kiln’s right shoulder. Kiln was close to Bomballa’s ear as he twisted his long dagger. Bomballa grunted in pain as his eyes opened wide in shock.
“Sorry to ruin your expensive silk,” Kiln whispered into the dying man’s ear. Kiln pulled his blade from Bomballa’s stomach and he fell to the ground with a thud.
He looked up to see Jonas move toward him, his blades red with blood. They both scanned the room as Alerion quickly ran to them, his long robes billowing at his feet.
“Where is the prince?” yelled Kiln over the sound of the roaring flames that surrounded them.
“There,” answered Alerion as he pointed to a corner of the tent blocked off by a hanging crimson tapestry. “We must hurry; the tent is starting to catch on fire.”
Sure enough the flames creating the magic barrier were starting to spread up the tall sides of the tent. All three ran over to the tapestry and flipped it open. Lying on a wooden table was Prince Baylin, completely naked and tied down with thick leather straps. His eyes were closed and he was not moving. He was covered with cuts, bruises, and blood, but it was not those wounds that caused the men to stop in horror and gaze in mute shock, but the grisly wound at his crotch, or at least where his crotch should have been. His manhood was completely cut off, leaving behind a bloody wound.
“In Ulren’s name, look what they did to him,” muttered Alerion.
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“Is he still alive?” asked Jonas in horror.
“I don’t know. But it’s time to go, the fire will consume the tent soon and I don’t want to be here when that happens,” the wizard replied.
Kiln quickly cut the straps holding the prince to the table and lifted him over his shoulder. “Get us out of here wizard,” ordered Kiln.
His words went unheard for Alerion was already beginning his spell. Jonas heard the words clearly but then everything became a blur as his head spun. The world went black and they all disappeared from the tent leaving nothing behind but four dead bodies.
***
Malbeck the Dark One sat casually on the Tarsinian throne. The magnificent chair was made of white stone that looked to be carved from one piece of rock. It was simple, large, and powerful, a fitting chair for the king of Tarsis, a warrior king of tremendous size and strength.
But King Kromm was somewhere in the Tundrens, running for his life, and Malbeck, the destroyer of Tarsis, sat on the white throne; the darkness of his very presence was in stark contrast to the white marble.
Malbeck, too, was a large man, over eight feet tall, but thin and muscular, with short, glossy black hair that draped a hard chiseled face. His eyes were pure white, which made it difficult to gaze at him without looking away. His lips had a bluish tinge to them, like the rest of his body, as if he were perpetually cold, and his teeth came to sharp points. He wore tight black breeches made from the skin of a black dragon. The black thick leather boots he wore were plated with dark steel. His muscled chest and arms were bare and he wore a black cloak that framed his huge shoulders and fanned out to cover most of the throne.
He was a demonoid, part man and part demon, twisted by the magic of the Forsworn. In his right hand he held the Spear of Gould, a powerful weapon given to him by his master, Gould the Tormentor. The shaft was made from light steel, polished black. The tip was a sharp silver point about as long as a man’s forearm. At the base of the spear tip was a round disk the size of a large fist, and engraved in the middle of this disk was the white eye of Gould.
The Cavalier Page 48
