*****
Lady Arkyn ran for all she was worth. Arrows streaked near her. She could hear the goargs’ hooves thumping against the ground chasing after her. The orcs shouted and grunted, but she didn’t bother to turn around. She pushed on, her feet barely lighting upon the ground before propelling her forward. She had prepared for this.
Lady Arkyn circled around a mark in the ash she had left before entering the camp. Her lips stretched into a smile when she heard the tell-tale schnap! A goarg screeched in pain and an orc’s shouts turned into garbled mumbling. She glanced back to see the pair of spikes jutting up through their bodies. The trap had worked perfectly.
The pursuers redoubled their efforts, closing in on her. She sprinted between two darkened, burnt trees, careful to run over the tripwire without springing it. She ran straight as fast as she could. None of the orcs could have known what was about to happen. She didn’t hear the tripwire snap, but she heard the groans and grunts as the several dozen spikes she had set up in two columns behind each burnt tree erupted out from the ash and tore into their targets. She stopped and turned to see her improvised traps in action. Only one orc survived the onslaught. All the others were caught in vital areas and either died upon impact or would soon bleed out.
“Okos borszorkany,” the orc grunted. He pulled his battle axe free and motioned for her to come to him.
“Eager to join your comrades in death?” Lady Arkyn asked. She sneered wickedly and beckoned the orc forward with her hand. “Catch me if you can,” she taunted.
The last foe glanced at the fallen orcs and then started to run after her once more.
Lady Arkyn spun around and ran away. Her feet were so light that she ran over the final trap she had prepared, a pit covered loosely with small branches and ash, without falling through. Her smile widened. She hadn’t succeeded in killing the chief, but she had wounded him. She had also humiliated his army. It was an act sure to sow the seeds of discord and doubt throughout the camp. Better still, she had managed to escape. Only a few more seconds and her final remaining pursuer would lie impaled by spikes in the bottom of a pit, and she would be free to return to Stonebrook.
Unfortunately, she was too busy congratulating herself to notice that her pursuer had stopped running. Her ears missed the ceasing footfalls, and they also failed to catch the warning sound of a whirling axe spinning through the air.
A sharp point tore through her armor and cut through her skin. Her eyes went wide. Something snapped. A rib maybe, or perhaps two. Her breath left her with such force that she wheezed and gasped for air. She didn’t realize that she was flying forward until her upper body tilted toward the ground and her face crashed into the layer of ash covering the hard ground beneath. Her legs flopped over her back and pinched her spine at the waist. Her body twisted and contorted unnaturally under her momentum, spinning and sliding through the ash for several feet before coming to a stop.
With great effort, Lady Arkyn managed to raise her head so that her right eye could see over the layer of ash. She choked and sputtered, still unable to suck in air. Her vision blurred, but she could see the orc running toward her again. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t react. Her fingers trembled and her lungs burned. Her back would not respond to her mental commands. She was helpless.
The orc shouted something and pulled what looked like a long knife, or perhaps a short sword, from his belt. He raised it high above his head and then disappeared. A horrible howl rose up from where the orc had just been. Only then did Arkyn realize he had fallen into the pit and met his own end.
Khhhhhugh! The air rushed in and she immediately choked and spat out a mouthful of ash that had entered with the air. Her lungs begged for breath, but the broken ribs burned and cried out against any movement. Finally, overcome with pain and shock, she lost consciousness. The darkness swept in over her and she went still in the ash.
CHAPTER NINE
Gilifan sat in his soft chair that had been brought in by the mercenaries some time ago and placed next to the blood-stained altar where the many victims had been sacrificed and their energies used to speed the egg’s hatching. He looked up when he heard the heavy footsteps echoing into the chamber where he sat. The gray haired, wide-shouldered man strode up to him confidently. It struck Gilifan how different Bergarax was from his half-brother, Governor Finorel. There was hardly an ounce of fat on the soldier, whereas Gilifan doubted he could find an ounce of muscle on the governor. One of them had the brawn to compel, while the other had the brain to control the populace.
Gilifan chuckled to himself then, thinking that if he could somehow merge the two into a single being, they might prove useful. Still, he had to acknowledge that they were upholding their end of the bargain. The necromancer had already lost count of the sacrifices they had brought to him for his rituals.
“Sir,” Bergarax said with a slightly bowed head. “I thought I should tell you that the snow has come.”
“Yes, that usually happens when autumn gives way to winter,” Gilifan said with a derisive snort. “Have you come empty handed only to tell me that snow falls upon Pinkt’Hu?”
Bergarax shook his head. “No. It appears that this winter has come early, and is much more severe than usual. The docks are now inaccessible due to ice forming in the shallow waters. Trade has been halted, and we will be reliant upon the storehouses for food.”
Gilifan smiled. “Well, then I suppose it will also help keep the citizens from buying their way aboard the trading vessels and escaping. That should help with the collection efforts.”
Bergarax frowned. His eyes flickered toward the altar and he sighed. It was a slight movement, but the necromancer noticed it. He knew the sacrifices made Bergarax uncomfortable. He also knew there was nothing the muscle-bound soldier could do about it.
“How many more do you require at this time?” Bergarax asked dutifully.
“How many do you have in the holding cells in the fortress?” Gilifan inquired.
“About thirty,” Bergarax answered.
“Bring me half,” Gilifan said quickly. “And make sure the chains are tight. I don’t want any of them trying to escape and being killed in the attempt by one of your mercenaries. If they die anywhere but the altar, I cannot capture their energy as it leaves the body.”
“Of course,” Bergarax said.
Gilifan twitched when he heard a slight crack. He held his hand up, motioning for Bergarax to remain still. Then he moved a single finger to cross over his lips. Bergarax nodded his understanding. The necromancer pushed up from his chair, wincing when the furniture creaked under the shifting weight. He softly walked toward the large egg which stood at the opposite end of the altar, nestled snugly in a concave half bowl of stone so that the top of the egg pointed slightly toward the flat of the altar. The river of blood from the numerous sacrifices had run down a trench in the stone to flow out over the egg shell so that now it appeared to be mostly brown and burgundy instead of showing the crowning spot over the top of the eggshell.
Gilifan hovered his hand out over the egg. A warm, vibrating force rose up to meet his hand.
“Will today be the day?” Gilifan whispered.
A throaty growl sounded in the distance. The necromancer couldn’t see his spirit, but he knew that Tu’luh was near as well. He smiled and turned his attention back toward the egg.
Click-click-crack!
Rapid tapping created a split in one side of the egg. A bright light flashed from within and a wisp of smoke snaked out through the crack.
“It is strong,” Gilifan commented. “The souls have fed it well.” He turned around to Bergarax. “On second thought, go and fetch all thirty. Then go out and find me a few hundred more.”
“A few hundred?” Bergarax repeated. His spine stiffened and his eyes went wide.
Gilifan ignored the man’s reaction and nodded. “The host will need to be strengthened quickly if it is to be fused with the master’s spirit.” He waved the soldier away. “Go, leave me
to this. The dragon will be wild when it comes out, and I shall need to subdue it.”
Gilifan didn’t bother watching for Bergarax to leave. He turned his attention back to the egg. Another crack ruptured through the shell. This one was nearly as long as Gilifan’s hand. He would have to hurry.
The necromancer began weaving a powerful ward around himself. Bands of red and gray encircled him and created a large sphere that was impervious to fire. Next he cast a net of lightning over the sphere. The crackling bolts flashed across the sphere every which way in a raucous, chaotic pattern. This would protect him in case the hatchling thought to make a meal of him. It wasn’t enough to kill the young dragon by any means, that would be counterproductive, but it was enough to stun the beast if needed.
Next he turned back and enclosed the chamber with a wall of lightning. Around that he created the illusion of a stone surface. He knew it wouldn’t hold up to a mature dragon’s keen mind, but a hatchling didn’t have the awareness to dispel illusions yet.
Another crack appeared in the shell. This time a fracture crossed horizontally across the shell. Time was running out.
Gilifan muttered an ancient spell, one shown to him by Tu’luh himself, back when the egg was entrusted to him. A golden orb appeared over the egg. A loud sound, like that of a constantly ringing gong filled the chamber, drowning out the lightning and even Gilifan’s own voice. The necromancer shouted as wind rushed through the chamber, whipping up dirt and dust around the magical spheres in the room.
The golden orb then flattened on the bottom and stretched until it resembled a great bell of brass.
A piece of shell the size of Gilifan’s face fell from the egg and split upon the stone floor. Inside the shell a yellow eye flashed across the opening, followed by a mass of silvery scales. A great light erupted from within the shell and then out came the hatchling. It roared mightily as the shell shattered around it. The fragile, leathery wings expanded out from the sides and a column of blue flame spewed upward from the hatchling’s throat.
The magical bell grew large enough to encapsulate the hatchling and then fell down to trap the beast.
Koorrrrrrrrrrrringgggg!
The hatchling didn’t even flinch. Instead, it immediately lunged at the inside of the magical net. Gilifan smiled as he watched the golden shape vibrate against the hatchling’s attack. Keeping his personal ward up, he waved his hand and turned the golden prison into a translucent bell so he could inspect the hatchling. It spun and wheeled around, attacking the inside from every angle. Claws, teeth, and fire assaulted the magical prison, but it was futile.
“Imagine the power the men of Kendualdern must have had once they created this spell,” Gilifan whispered to himself. The constant ringing died down just as soon as the dragon became still. It’s yellow, angry eyes turned to the necromancer. Gilifan cocked his head to the side and grinned. “If the master didn’t need you, I might have made you my own.”
The man dropped his ward, but kept the magical wall in place behind him. He wasn’t worried that the hatchling would escape, but he had no patience for intruders at this time. He wanted this moment to himself. The power he felt conquering a dragon was more ecstatic than any other he had known. Even raising the dead had not brought thrills like this. Inside of a translucent bell sat a live dragon. The spell, Gilifan knew, was used to not only to capture dragons, but to imprison their minds before they could develop. It would enslave them.
“The men of Kendualdern had no idea what greatness was theirs,” Gilifan whispered. “If they had, they might have saved their world.” The necromancer bent down and placed a hand on his side of the bell. The hatchling snarled and shot a puff of flame at him. Instinctively, Gilifan jumped. He laughed at himself afterward. He knew the spell would hold, but that hadn’t lessened the sudden fright.
“So,” Gilifan said as he locked eyes with the dragon. “Shall we begin?” He rose up and stretched both hands out to the top of the bell. As he had been instructed by Tu’luh, he began the chant. He wasn’t sure the words were pronounced exactly as Tu’luh had shown him, but they were close enough. He began to feel the bell vibrating underneath his hands. The dragon shivered and curled into a ball as tendrils of golden light flashed down time and time again. The hatchling cried out and attempted to cover itself, but there was no escape. The tendrils continued to fire down rapidly, pinning the beast to the stone floor and beating its will into submission.
Gilifan continued the chant for perhaps half an hour before the last tendril flashed and then exploded into a cloud of what looked like gold dust. That, Tu’luh had told him, would be the sign that the spell was complete and the dragon had been tamed. Gilifan stepped back. His body was noticeably weaker. His hands trembled and his feet were numb. His head ached in the front and he struggled for breath. Goosebumps rippled over his entire body. Placing one hand upon the bell, he lowered himself down to his knees.
The dragon came to the edge of the translucent bell and sat upon its haunches expectantly. Gilifan smiled at the beast.
“Lie down,” Gilifan commanded.
The dragon dropped to its belly.
“Raise your tail,” Gilifan said.
The dragon lifted its silvery tail and held it as high as it could.
“Stand and roar,” Gilifan said.
The hatchling sprang up and roared as mightily as it could.
“So that is what it feels like to control a dragon,” Gilifan chuckled to himself. “Lie down, now we rest,” Gilifan said. The dragon dropped back down and closed its eyes obediently. A pair of fierce eyes stared at Gilifan from the other side of the bell. The necromancer’s heart nearly stopped until he realized he was seeing Tu’luh in spirit form.
A low throaty growl filled the chamber, reminding Gilifan that the hatchling belonged to the master.
*****
“Another game of cards?” Maernok grumbled when he saw Salarion take out the well-worn deck of playing cards.
“We have enough food for today, and Tu’luh’s spirit is still near. We can’t make ourselves known until his spirit has been fused with the new body.”
Maernok moved to the window and looked down. “The soldiers are gathering more than usual today,” he commented. “Are you sure they won’t come in here?”
“They can’t see this building,” Salarion replied. “To them it looks like a burnt shell of stone without a roof and filled with rubble on the lower level. My spell will keep them out.”
“I hate magic,” Maernok groused.
Salarion shuffled the cards. “If you want to run out and meet Gilifan’s army head on, be my guest.”
“This doesn’t feel right,” Maernok said. “Hiding in here while others flee and are rounded up.”
“I told you before, only after the spell is used will Gilifan be weak enough to vanquish.”
“You sure we can’t sneak in and kill him before?” Maernok pressed. “If your spell works on the guards down below, then we can get close enough to kill the meddler. Let’s end this madness!”
Salarion shook her head. Her raven hair fell over her brow and covered one of her purple eyes. “I told you, Tu’luh can see through any illusion I could create. He would alert them and then we would find ourselves fighting an army of hundreds with no escape.”
“Sounds more honorable than this,” Maernok spat.
“The mission is to kill Gilifan. Doing so will save thousands more than will be lost here in Pinkt’Hu. Though I must say I admire your consistent concern for the humans.”
Maernok’s eyes flashed with anger and he folded his muscular arms over his thick chest. “I have no love for the creatures,” he snarled. “I am not accustomed to hiding in the shadows when there is glory to be won.”
“You are not so different from the humans,” Salarion said. “You both have this delusion that glory will grant you immortality. Tell me, what good does it do you for strangers to sing songs of your deeds around a campfire you will never see? Does it ease the sufferin
g you will endure in Hammenfein?”
“Watch your tongue, drow. I shall be a captain in Hammenfein. I will lead legions.”
“Again,” Salarion began as she reshuffled the deck. “What good will that do you? You will still be cast out and imprisoned in a fiery realm bereft of beauty and pleasure. What difference if you are a captain of slaves when neither are free?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Maernok replied.
“That is exactly my point,” Salarion said as she dealt three cards to each of them. “I don’t understand why the armies of Hammenfein don’t rise up and conquer Terramyr. An army of immortal orcs crushing every living thing on the surface would be quite the campaign.”
“You mock us?” Maernok asked. “You elves are supposed to possess wisdom unmatched and yet you don’t grasp something as simple as the rules that bind us to Hammenfein?” Maernok shook his head and sat at the table opposite Salarion to take his cards. “Without bodies, we can do little in the realm of the living. The gods that rule Hammenfein are not able to give us our bodies back, otherwise we would have spilled out from Hammenfein ages ago to avenge our ancestors.”
“Hatmul and Khefir are the current lords of Hammenfein, yes?” Salarion asked.
“Yes, the sons of Khullan, our Creator.”
“Why not send the valiant orcs down to liberate Khullan? Surely he could resurrect you into your bodies,” she pointed out.”
“Bah,” Maernok groused. “Khullan is bound in Vishnull, with a limb lashed to each pillar of Hell. Not even Hatmul could survive a descent through the lower levels of Hell. Only Icadion has the power to do that.”
“Which brings me back to my original question,” Salarion said. “If there is nothing you can do to change anything on a lasting scale, then why try to seek glory?”
Return of the Dragon (The Dragon's Champion Book 6) Page 13
