Sword of Light (The Knights of the Golden Dragons - Book One)

by Reaves, Troy

  Gregor replied with disgust tainting every word he spoke. “Farther Tur'morival keeps you as his thrall? I find that interesting, but fail to see how we could possibly seek the same end to this conflict. I am here to avenge the souls you cast into the spirit world when you destroyed the Knights of Bella Grey. Your destruction will no doubt lead to Father Tur'morival's death as well.”

  “There is only one thing the Master fears, Lord Lightsword.” The demon extended his clawed hand as the creature's tail danced around it, appearing to examine the hilt he held before retreating behind his back. Gregor recognized the blackened hilt immediately, but made no move to take it. The knight sensed the dancing tail's movements had been a warning against attempting to seize the offered hilt. “You are correct, Lord Lightsword. It would be unwise to take the hilt from me. There is no power you can bring against me that would not end in your death, and we have a mutual enemy to deal with before you bear your sword against me.”

  Gregor felt he was walking into a trap directly in front of him, but saw no way to avoid it if what the demon said was true. “Why should I trust you at all? It would be better to send you back into the Abyss and take the hilt than to bargain with a demon.”

  The demon stared into the young knight's eyes, keeping his hand extended as he spoke. “Take the lesson offered by your mentor, Lord Lightsword. I have little doubt that he is the superior weapon handler of the two of you, yet here I remain while he lies in a pool of his own blood. Would you suffer the same fate in a foolish attempt to destroy me? You should forget the past, holy warrior, and look to preserving the future. Your death at my hands compromises all the people of this world, do not doubt that even if you doubt me.”

  Gregor was about to respond when the demon’s eyes shut and the Tharnorsa took several rapid steps backward, clutching the hilt to its chest. The creature's body trembled as some unseen force shook it. Only the grip of its clawed feet, digging deeply into the rocky ground under it, held the demon upright. The violent fit persisted for several seconds, and the Tharnorsa spoke as if all breath had been forced from it when the shaking stopped, pushing words through lips bent by pain. “As you wish, Master.”

  The demon moved with blurring speed as it sprang to the seat of its throne where Lord Silverwing lay. Without warning, the Tharnorsa drove its stinger into the center of the failing knight's chest. Before Gregor had time to react, the demon swept Tana from his side and buried the venomous tip of its tail into Gregor's exposed neck. Boremac took only a moment to move between Gregor and the demon, but it was enough. The wicked tail snaked its way around the rogue's neck, cutting off the flow of air through his throat as the flaps of skin near the tail's stinger covered Boremac's eyes. “Father Tur'morival knows you have come. The poison I have injected should give you just enough time to find him. I will amuse myself with your companions until you return, if you return.”

  Gregor found his voice as the venom began to work its way into his body. “In the name of the God of Light, I command that you not harm them!” The Elenondo metal of Onmea, the weapon forged by Master Firebeard in what now seemed another time and another life, ignited with white flame.

  “Your God has no power over me, but I will honor your faith on one condition.” The Tharnorsa tightened his tail's hold on Boremac's throat, lifting the rogue from the ground as he did. “Father Tur'morival possesses a stone which binds me to him and gives him some amount of my true powers. Do not destroy the stone, and your companions will live.”

  “You will be destroyed, demon, that I promise you. I will return with the stone when your Master has tasted my blade.” Gregor began to turn from the demon as the Tharnorsa tossed the blackened hilt toward the knight, dropping Boremac to the floor.

  “Your blade will fail, Lord Lightsword. Wield the sword of your long dead master, boy, and carve out the priest's heart.”

  Gregor grabbed the hilt from the air and brought the transforming piece to meet the blade he had carried for so long. A brilliant golden light infused the hilt, returning it to its former glory, as the sword was once again made whole. The young knight wasted no motion as he slid the holy sword of the Knights of the Golden Dragon into the scabbard at this back. Somehow he knew now was not the time to expose that blade, and he took Onmea into his gauntleted hands for now. Gregor turned, moving toward the stairs leading into the keep and the destiny set before him. Despite the poison coursing through is body, Gregor felt the reassuring weight of the weapon in the scabbard at his back and knew he would see the demon once more.

  Father Tur'morival was surprised to see the young knight enter his chamber. He rose to greet Gregor, his priest's staff in one hand and the soul stone in the other. The priest looked at the knight with interest, noting the presence of the black blade Gregor carried and the odd halo of light that encircled the holy warrior's head. The priest was glad the knight had prayed for divine protection before facing him. It would make killing the fool all the more satisfying. “So, the demon has failed. I suppose it is only fitting that the pleasure of killing you will be mine. Come closer, knight. Bring your faith and your weapon against your executioner.”

  Gregor slowly closed the distance between himself and Father Tur'morival, both his hands flexing on the grip of Onmea. “This is the last day you will draw breath, Father Tur'morival. Your pet still lives but will be destroyed soon enough, once I have dealt with you.”

  The priest's staff and the soul stone became enveloped in the same crimson mist that Gregor had seen so many times before. Father Tur'morival's condescending tone as he addressed the knight infuriated Gregor, but he restrained himself from drawing the holy sword from its scabbard at his back. He might disagree with his rogue companion's chosen profession, but he could not deny the wisdom of what he had learned in watching Boremac face the assassin that had almost killed him. One should take a full measure of an opponent before striking to kill. “It is good that you know the true name of the one that will send you to your God. I wonder if your studies gave you wisdom enough to know that there is no hope for you, or any of the people in this land.”

  “You speak of the Crimson Night that you have labored so long to bring, I assume. There is no honor in taking demons as allies. Even if you were to open the gateway into the Abyss, do you think the demons that would pour forth will reward a mortal with anything more than an eternity of suffering?” Gregor closed the distance between himself and the priest as he spoke. Father Tur'morival was almost within his reach.

  “The powers of the Abyss are readily controlled once one understands what is required. The Tharnorsa you have somehow gotten past does not call me its Master out of respect, I assure you.”

  Father Tur'morival stepped forward, bringing Gregor within the reach of his staff. “You do not think I fear that sword you bear, do you? Kill me, if that is your destiny. Let us match weapons and see who falls.”

  The time for words was at an end, and Gregor drew from all his companions’ fighting styles to choose the best way of striking the priest. Father Tur'morival showed no sign of recognizing the weapon resting in the scabbard on Gregor's back, and the young knight intended to take advantage of his ignorance. Gregor swept Onmea in a tight looping formation before him, attempting to draw a strike from Father Tur'morival's staff. The staff in the priest's hands spun end over end in a tight circle at a blurring speed, forming a shield of red mist before him. Gregor sighted a flaw in the defense immediately. If the arc of the staff could be halted as the tip faced the ground, the knight could possibly dislodge the metal pole in the priest's grasp. The problem was, if Gregor could not sweep the staff properly, his own weapon would be cast away and he would be disarmed. No one ever said the slaying of Father Tur'morival would be without peril.

  Gregor thrust his black blade into Father Tur'morival's spinning staff and felt a wave of pain travel up his arms as the staff and sword made contact. The priest's staff swept the blade to one side, almost causing Gregor to lose his grip as the sword vibrated in his hands. The fo
rce of the staff's motion carried the knight's blade high to Father Tur'morival's left, telling the knight which direction the weapon was traveling at least. If the priest kept the staff spinning in the same direction, Gregor could take him with his next strike.

  The young knight drew his sword back to a ready position as Father Tur'morival resumed turning the staff rapidly in his hands. The priest seemed to be unimpressed by Gregor's attack, allowing the knight a moment to retreat and regain his balance. Gregor nearly betrayed his intentions with a smile. Father Tur'morival's pause would prove to be his last mistake. The priest had resumed turning the staff at a much slower pace, building the speed as if he were demonstrating his lack of concern for the challenge Gregor presented. Now the knight knew for certain how to strike him.

  Gregor moved toward Father Tur'morival and once more thrust his blade into the spinning staff, releasing the grip of his stronger hand from the hilt and twisting the sword's blade with the other to counter the force of the impact. Even as the staff was propelled into the air at the priest's side, Father Tur'morival countered the motion, moving to strike Gregor violently in the side of his head. As his blow slammed Gregor's head to one side, Father Tur'morival caught sight of the hilt of the true sword of the Knights of the Golden Dragon, and the priest stepped back. The holy blade had haunted the priest throughout his existence, ever since he had learned to use the true powers of the Abyss to preserve his mortal form. The blade, broken for so long and now whole once more, was the only holy artifact that could be wielded against him. The demon had betrayed him. Father Tur'morival drew his staff to his side, confused by his failure to prevent the restoration of the weapon that cast a halo around this petty warrior's head.

  It was the only opening Gregor needed. The holy warrior's favored hand pulled the true blade from the scabbard at his back. Drawing on the lessons of Lord Silverwing so long ago, Gregor knocked the staff to one side with Onmea, delivering a staggering blow into Father Tur'morival's chest with the blazing sword of the Knights of the Golden Dragon. The priest crumpled to the floor, flesh withered by two hundred years of unnatural life replacing the thick shimmering scales that had covered him, and Gregor moved to kneel at the priest's side. Father Tur'morival stared up at the kneeling warrior, focusing his remaining strength to speak. “As it was foretold, so it has come to pass. Destroy the stone and destroy Siniamadrau, it is the only way. Destroy Siniamadrau.” The priest's body rotted away until all that remained were bits of bone and a pile of dried flesh to show he had ever lived at all.

  Gregor felt his strength lessening as he bent to pick up the glowing stone near the empty robes Father Tur'morival had worn. He rose slowly, returning the blessed sword of the Knights of the Golden Dragon to the sheath at his back and sliding Onmea into the scabbard at this side. The young knight doubted he would have the power to wield the weapons against Siniamadrau, but he raised his voice in entreaty to the God of Light to carry him back down the stairs to the demon's lair. “Blessed God of Light, I will do what you will of me and ask nothing for myself. Give me the wisdom to destroy the creature that has violated the Keepers of the Light who sacrificed themselves in service to you. Allow me to draw my final breath after the demon is no more and bow before your divinity once I have served your purpose.” His heavy boots slowly dragged him to the stairs as he balanced himself carefully, running his gauntleted hand along the wall of the stairwell that led to the demon's throne room. Somehow he retained a grip on the stone in his other hand as each step weakened his body. Gregor swore he would do what must be done before his spirit left this world.

  ***

  Tana had taken only a moment to stare at Gregor's retreating back as he headed to the stairs at the far side of the cavern. Boremac wasted no time picking himself up from the ground, and while coughing in an effort to clear his throat, launched into a verbal assault directed at the Tharnorsa that would have made the most callous sailor blush. Tana found a smile forcing its way to her lips as she watched the foolish rogue deftly dodge the demon's envenomed tail. Boremac quickly danced to one side then the other, stabbing at the offending tail of the creature before him, the whole time holding out his shimmering daggers that were lit once more as the poison from the demon had been injected into Gregor. The huntress had to admit the rogue was brave. Insane, but no less brave for his lack of wisdom. “You will find me a more difficult opponent than the nearby dead Silverwing and Master Gregor. Bring me your stinger so I can carry a proper treasure home! Come on, can you do no better than that? My mind is too slippery for one grown used to dealing with honorable warriors.” Tana understood the rogue's warning, and cleared her own mind as she slipped behind the demon while Boremac bought her the time she would need. She focused on summoning her healing powers as she ran quietly to the demon's giant throne, praying the rogue could keep the demon from knowing her intent. She would not be able to heal Lord Silverwing or purge the poison with her limited powers, but she had to do what she could. Tana trusted it would be enough until she could use the curative Gregor had given her.

  ***

  Boremac dusted himself off as the demon glared at him with hate-filled eyes. Even before the rogue had risen from the floor of the cavern, he had attacked the demon with a vitriolic series of curses, calling the creature's abilities and the demon's commitment to chaos and evil, into question. “Pity you can't kill me. I am pretty certain I can take you, demon. Do you honor the words you gave Master Gregor? Come, take me if you can!” Boremac focused his mind on the events of the past as he gave his body over to the reflexes he had honed in a lifetime of self-preservation. As he grinned at the furious demon before him, knocking the vicious stinger of its tail away from him with the flat of his dagger, he remembered events that had brought him here; when Silverwing shot him from the tree after slaying the assassins, waking up next to the goat, rescuing Master Gregor only to be captured himself. The demon would find nothing in the rogue's mind to give him an advantage. Just a little more time, that was all the huntress needed, and Boremac would do his damnedest to give it to her. “I know you can move faster than that, demon. Don't hold back on my account. You don't fear the simple daggers of a master thief, do you?” Boremac thrust both the daggers out at once, each still glowing dimly, toward the scars Silverwing had given the creature long ago. The rogue noticed that the blades he held out, brightly shining when Gregor had first felt the bite of the demon's stinger, had diminished in intensity when the knight had moved deeper into the keep to face Father Tur'morival. Curiously, the enveloping golden glow was intensifying once more very slowly as the rogue withdrew the feint. “Looks like a nasty pair of scars you have there, demon. That must have hurt. The God of Light appears to be favoring me in our little dance. Why don't we make this easy for you? Drop that tail and I will stab you in the throat. Judging from the other victims of my blades, it will only hurt you for a moment. I never was much for extending death throes.” Boremac slapped at the tail as it swept low around the demon's waist, seeking purchase in the rogue's leathers. “Come on, demon. This is just silly. Bow to a superior foe and go back to the Abyss.” The demon drew back the tail, trembling with fury, and brought it high, preparing to pierce the rogue's neck in reply to his taunting. Boremac grinned with the knowledge that his little gamble had worked. He buried the two brightly glowing daggers into the scars of the demon's chest, dropping into a crouch and springing away from the Tharnorsa to land on his back several steps from where the demon stood.

  Boremac wondered for years to come why he was not killed at that moment. Everything happened so fast the rogue could not make sense of what had taken place. The demon howled in fury as it leapt into the air toward where Boremac lay. The rogue saw that the hilts protruding from the descending demon were glowing more brightly that he had ever seen before, two small suns in the Tharnorsa's chest. The creature landed, digging its clawed feet into the rocky floor at Boremac's sides, and brought one of his clawed scaly hands to the rogue's chest. As the Tharnorsa pinned Boremac to the f
loor, impossibly long bloody claws emerged from the demon's other hand as he raised it over his head. The demon's intention was clear, and Boremac drew what he was certain would be his last breath.

  “Release him, demon!” The command was little more than a whisper. “You are bound to the will of the keeper of the stone. Release him now.”

  Boremac released the breath his lungs had seemingly held for hours, still staring into the demon's eyes. The Tharnorsa's claws drew back into the hand over his head. The creature was not quite ready to release the rogue despite the command. “You will be dealt with in a moment, rogue.” Boremac felt the truth in the demon's last words to him. Gregor was dying; there was no doubt in the rogue's mind. He was familiar enough with the last words of the dying to recognize them as Gregor spoke.

  “Father Tur'morival is dead and the Crimson Night will not come to pass, not so long as there is breath in my body. You will submit, and you will be destroyed. Kneel, demon.” Blood and greenish fluid trickled from Gregor's mouth as he spoke. The holy warrior fell to his own knees, the last of his strength leaving him as the demon's poison coursed through his body.

  “You have returned with the stone as you promised, and I will allow your companions to live, though their lives will be an unending torture. I hope you will allow me to kill them when they beg for death, Master. You should speak on their behalf now. It will not be long until you succumb to the poison eating your flesh.” The demon's condescending tone and the words concerning his companions gave Gregor the power to do one thing more. The demon had desired the stone whole for some reason, and if he were able to take it from Gregor's dead hands, his friends would suffer for all eternity. Still, Father Tur'morival had said that the stone must be destroyed to destroy the demon. What had ruled the priest’s reasoning at the end? A desire for the destruction of his deceiver, or the bringing of the Crimson Night for which he had so long labored? Gregor had no choice. He brought the stone in his grasp even with his shoulder and focused all his remaining strength into shattering the orb against the cavern floor, whispering his last command to the demon. “Siniamadrau, I command you by your true name to exist no more. Your spirit will be diminished as your form in this world and the Abyss is extinguished. You will submit to the divine will of the God of Light as delivered by the Knight of the Golden Dragon, Keeper of the Light.” A small crimson cloud rose from the remnants of the stone, slowly drifting to join with Siniamadrau as it shifted and flowed toward the demon.