Suni lowered his head and continued forward seeking to pass the guard.
“Veh tok amanu!” The angered Grel’in growled taking hold of Suni’s upper arm in a vise like grip.
The other Grel’in moved forward, wishing to inflict pain upon the Morne who would dare defile their master’s doorstep.
Suni spun into the warrior’s chest. His left armed pinned in the Grellin’s grip. His right hand shot upward his fingers extended their tips touching. Into the visor they plunged, driving through the left eye. Flesh ripped and bone splintered. Suni yanked his hand free, blood and bits of brain splattered onto the dark stone. The Grip upon his arm released as the Grel’in fell backwards dead before striking the stone.
Suni spun away towards the startled guards. He lashed out with his left foot, sweeping the feet out from under the closest of the two. Leaping over the fallen warrior he dove towards the Grel’in yet standing.
The possessed warrior stepped back, surprised at the speed of the man. His sword was only half drawn when Suni’s fist delivered a powerful blow into his throat.
The force of the strike crushed his windpipe and broke his neck in two places. The Grel’in died quickly, a surprised look upon his withered face.
Suni continued his dive, rolling as he struck the ground he was on his feet in an instant. His hands dipped within the Morne cloak withdrawing his Kalmari in a sweeping motion. He turned to face the remaining warrior who was now on his feet with his sword drawn.
The Grel’in spared a glance to his fallen companions. For the first time in his many millennia long existence he felt the metallic taste of fear. The Grel’in believed that they were invincible, yet before him stood a mere man who had slain two of the Dark Lords most powerful warriors. He had accomplished this with his bare hands no less.
Many generations past his host had been a formidable warrior in his own right. The Grel’in drew upon the fighting skills of his host.HH
Blow after blow the Grel’in threw at the man, his sword striking nothing but empty air. The human was quick with an agility that amazed the Grel’in, Always staying one step of him.
The Grel’in’s blade rang shrilly, striking the stone in a spray of sparks. Suni stomped on the flat of the blade and struck the Grel’in’s helm a powerful blow with his Kalmari. The Helm was dented badly, the Grel’in’s skull fractured in several places.
The Grel’in was knocked off balance and fell forward. Suni struck the guardian twice more across the back of his helm. The black spirit within the man’s body screamed in rage as the life upon which it had fed for ages winked out. With its hosts death the possessor too felt the touch of death’s cold hand.
Suni returned the Kalmari to his belt and stepped through the gate to ensure that the way ahead was clear.
Chapter Nine
Suni stood looking down the long rough-hewn tunnel. The walls pulsating with reflected light from the calderas. At the tunnels end stood the iron bridge that spanned the molten stone lake known as the Magmal. Perched upon a dark isle of glassy stone stood Sur’kar’s tower, a massive construct of dark stone and iron rising high above the roiling fire and lava.
Suni turned his back to the dreaded edifice and raised his arm, signaling the others to join him.
The ground shook violently and a deafening roar filled the tunnel. Suni looked over his shoulder; the entire calderas had filled with fire and upwelling lava. Only a faint shimmering wall of power protected the tower, bridge and tunnel from the hellish heat.
Suni drug the bodies of the slain Grel’in behind the gate, hiding them in the shadows. By the time he had finished the others had joined him at the entry.
The eruption was still occurring when they reached the tunnels end. Flashes of light flickered where the lava was held back by arcane power.
Marcos looked at his hesitant companions. “It is safe to cross.” He said reassuringly. “Sur’kar has bound his power to the metal and it protects the way ahead. It will hold as long as he lives.”
Casius looked at the violently churning flame. “And when we kill him? What Happens then?”
“The protection will fail.” Marcos answered. “It will not end suddenly, it will last weeks before the volcano reclaims the tower and bridge, eventually even the town beyond will fall.”
Casius breathed a sigh of relief, his concerns about being trapped within the tower somewhat abated by Marcos’s statement.
Out onto the bridge they ventured. It was three hundred feet long and fifty feet wide. The iron plates rang dully with each footfall. It spanned the molten stone in a graceful arc, without railings or visible supports of any kind. A ribbon of blackened metal that looked far to weak to hold its own weight let alone any who would dare cross it.
“Amazing,” Yoladt said in awe as they drew near the middle of the span. “We should be dying from the heat of this place.”
“Should the wards fail we would burst into flame and the metal upon our persons would flow like water.” Marcos added motioning for Yoladt to keep moving.
They stepped from the span and entered a courtyard surrounded by a low wall on three sides. Before them stood the tower, dark and foreboding devoid of windows and doorways, a bleak construct rising high into the ash-laden air.
Connell stepped forward and placed his hand upon the smooth metal of the towers base. He cursed and yanked his hand back.
“Hot?” Yoladt asked.
“Nay,” Connell answered blowing onto his palm. “It’s freezing, so cold it burns.”
“We’ve come a long way for naught.” Casius stated looking up at the blank wall before them. “No doors or windows, how do we get in?”
“But there is a door, Casius.” Marcos said stepping forward and placing his palm upon the icy surface. He winced at the contact and stepped back as fiery red tendrils of light formed the outline of a doorway. “If one knows where to look.”
Connell stepped back and drew his sword as the double door swung soundlessly inward. Casius grasped Aethir’s hilt but Marcos’s stayed his hand.
“Draw the black blade only when we face Sur’kar.” He warned.
“What about guards?”
Marcos shook his head. “He suffers no one within his presence. Even the Grel’in stood watch at the gate and no closer.”
With a slight frown into the gloom beyond the doorway he drew his own blade. “At times such as these a few precautions are wise.” With a nod he sent Suni into the tower.
Smiling at Casius he followed the warrior into the darkness.
Connell held Casius back until Yoladt had passed through the entry. “Stay close,” He whispered before stepping across the threshold.
Casius tightened his grip upon blackthorns pommel and followed Connell.
The door opened into a circular chamber that filled the base of the tower. Two hundred feet across with a high domed ceiling sixty feet above their heads. It was Spartan in design, no furniture or decorations of any kind. The floor was mirror smooth and as black as the walls outside. The only light came from the ceiling, a sickly green glow that seemed to pulsate as if the very tower was alive.
Suni stopped and pointed to the center of the chamber.
A black opening yawned in the reflective floor, a deep pit twenty feet across. In the gloom it would have been easily missed by any one of them. On the far side of the opening a slender stair wound upward disappearing in a hole in the domed ceiling.
Moving cautiously they circled around the pit. Casius crept close to the edge and peered into the darkness below. He could only see a few feet down the smooth walled shaft. But the darkness gave him a sense of great depth. From the depths he could hear a faint sighing sound and a rancid smelling breeze wafted upward forcing him back.
After a few moments of standing and listening for the slightest sound of movement from above they began to ascend the narrow spiral stair.
Upward the stair rose, passing through dimly lit chambers filled with strange constructions of metal and glass. At tim
es Marcos would stop and stare at them and shake his head sadly before continuing on.
Chapter Ten
For six days the force of Taur Di drove their mounts hard. They had left the Randorian forest two days past, heading due north across a range of steep hills that formed the southern extent of the Rahlcrag Mountains.
Skirting the edge of the Gaul-Tyrian wastes they traveled along the western flank of arid foothills turning slightly northeast.
A great sea of dunes ran westward, harsh winds blew grit into their eyes and clothing. Burcott’s men followed the Taur Di’s example and wore scarves across their faces to keep out the worst of the dust.
On the morning of the tenth day, five men walked out of the desert and stood in the Taur Di’s path.
They were dressed in flowing robes the color of sand, with long swaths of cloth wrapped about their necks and heads leaving only a thin slit for their eye’s. Across their backs hung scabbards holding long swords with broad curving blades.
One of the men unwrapped his headdress exposing a face deeply tan and weathered from exposure to the sun and desert winds. His dark eyes glittered brightly, watching the approaching army with feigned indifference.
The column angled to the side and passed the men. Jehnom reigned in his mount and slid from the deer’s back. With a wave he called for Burcott to join him.
Burcott spurred his horse forward and dismounted at Jehnom’s side. “Friends?” He asked.
Jehnom shrugged slightly. “The nomads are rarely civil to other nations.” He answered.
The Nomads stepped forward, their leader looking the two men over before bowing his head and touching his heart in greeting.
Jehnom repeated the gesture. “Greetings walker of the wastes.” He added after finishing the bow.
“I carry a message.” The bare faced nomad said. “The Sahri wishes to know why the woodlanders march so far from their home?”
“Justice.” Jehnom said coldly. “We go to avenge our dead upon the Morne. They have defiled our homes and set fire to the trees of the forest. This crime my people shall not allow to go unpunished.”
The nomad’s eyes narrowed and a hint of anger laced his voice. “The Lizard men have earned our wrath as well. Even now my people mourn the loss of many at their hand. They fell upon us at night, trolls at their side. Destroying much in their passage southward.”
“If they are the same as those who attacked my home, then they are dead.” Jehnom said. “There is a great host of them gathered in the north. It is to them we shall carry the fight.”
“And the outlander?” The nomad asked with a nod to Burcott.
“Lord Burcott of Trondhiem.” Jehnom replied. “He and his men have earned the gratitude of the Taur Di. By their actions they have saved the lives of hundreds of my people. We have offered them a place of honor among us.”
The nomad nodded in understanding. “Continue your course and stray not into the wastes. I will carry your words to the Sahri Kahlamm. By his leave you will be allowed to continue.”
Jehnom’s back straightened in indignation. “The wastes are your lands sand walker, but these hills are free lands and we will pass.”
“Since the Morne attack the Sahri has claimed all the land to the Mountains.” The nomad responded. “From the black waters of the south to the sands end in the north, from these lowly peaks to the great heights far to the west. These lands are now the Sahri’s to rule.”
With a nod to his companions he turned and sprinted up the nearest dune face and disappeared over its crest, His companions following after.
Jehnom watched them depart, his brow furrowed in consternation.
“Pleasant fellow.” Burcott quipped.
“His people have always been suspicious of others.” Jehnom snapped his fingers calling his mount to him. “With the attack upon his kith it is a wonder that we have been allowed to travel so far.”
Burcott looked to the long line of Taur Di riding away. The two columns of mounted men left a trail of billowing dust over a mile long in their wake. “They now know our numbers Jehnom, we may meet resistance yet.”
Jehnom mounted and looked to the waste. “It would go badly if we did.” He said spurring his stag forward at a trot.
Burcott swung up into his saddle and wiped the sweat from his brow. His eyes searched the barren wastes to the west. “Then let us hope this Sahri of theirs is reasonable.” He muttered to himself spurring his horse after Jehnom.
Chapter Eleven
Gaelan stood upon the wreckage of the towers roof. In his hand he held the great bow of King Wolhan, try as he might he could not draw it back. He doubted there was a single man within the keep capable of doing so. Yet the late king had done so almost effortlessly.
He thought of trying once more but gave up the idea immediately. He handed the bow to one of his messengers.
“Place this in the king’s chambers.” He said. “Lock the door and set a guard. No one is to enter those rooms without my leave.”
The young man took the bow and held it as if it would break. He bowed his head and stepped carefully across the rubble heading for the stair leading into the towers depths.
Gaelan strode away from the ruined edge and leaned against the unbroken stonework of the eastern parapet. He looked out across the great arc of the wall. His men were exhausted and more than half now bore wounds. He knew it was only a matter of time until the great fortress was taken.
With every sunset the Morne would attack, dying in great numbers before the walls. Through it all, the black armored figure stood silent vigil. Remaining beyond bowshot the warrior directed his attacking army with ruthless abandon. He cared not for their lives; his only goal was the destruction of Timosh.
From his vantage point he could see Prince Jerudan directing the keeps defenders. Further along the wall, where the stone met with the wall of the comb he could see the golden flash of D’Yana’s hair.
He had been concerned about her decision to stay initially. But he was glad she had, D’Yana was a valiant warrior who had fought bravely at his side. He could not ask for a better companion in battle. A demon with those short swords, many a Morne now lay dead having believed her to be an easy mark.
Shouts of outrage drew his attention back to the field of battle. A large pole had been sunk into the stony earth, and the Morne were tying the body of King Wolhan to the post. He hung upside down; his lifeless eyes staring up at the men on the walls.
The Morne drew their swords and slapped his chest with the flats of their blades. Calling out challenges to the keeps defenders in their obscene tongue.
Standing nearby the armored warrior watched all with pleasure.
Night fell and wave after wave of the Morne crashed into the keep. A sea of dead lay piled against the walls, and yet they came. Driven by anger, and fear of their god they threw their lives away in their quest to kill the men. The ground became a mire of half frozen mud and thick pools of spilt blood.
At midnight, horns sounded in the distance and the Morne retreated back to their campsite.
Gaelan sat upon a water keg and watched as the wounded and dead were cleared from the wall. Too many he thought angrily, we cannot hope to last much longer.
A work party emerged from within the tower, each of the men bearing several of the spear-sized shafts for the ballista’s mounted along the parapet. Only six of the eight remained functional and the shafts were in short supply.
Gaelan looked to the black armored fiend upon the field. Two nights ago they had tried to kill him with a shot from the giant crossbow, but it had failed. The bolt had burst into flames the moment it touched him. Three more shots were taken but they could not pierce his armor.
Gaelan ordered that no more shots be taken, the bolts were in short supply and they were very effective against the trolls.
The dark figure stared at the defenders for a short while longer before stalking off towards his army’s encampment.
Gaelan watched the monster leave
, where his feet trod, the ground steamed violently.
It was well after midnight when he returned to his quarters. He washed the grime from his face and hands and fell onto his cot, too tired to even remove his boots before falling fast asleep.
No attack came the next night; it appeared that even the Morne were exhausted from the constant fighting.
In the early hours of the morning the ground shook and a deep rumble came from the west. The sky turning a fiery orange upon the western horizon, and with the coming of daylight a dark smudge stained the sky.
Snow fell late in the day, the temperature dropping well below freezing. Even with the cold the smell of the dead tainted the air.
Prince Jerudan wrapped his cloak tightly about him as stepped out of the tower and out onto the southern arc of the wall. There he found King Gaelan moving among his men. He greeted each of them in passing, exchanging words of encouragement and praise.
“We have a problem,” He told Gaelan when they met.
“You’ve noticed the army at our gate as well?” Gaelan asked with a grin.
Jerudan could see that the new king was far from jovial and was merely putting on a front for the men. “It is the dead.” He said changing the subject, indicating the piles of slain Morne with a tilt of his head.
Gaelan looked down upon the carnage. “They do not appear to be threatening us in any way.”
“I speak of disease.” Jerudan coughed, he had acquired a cold a few days past and was still suffering from it. “Even with this cold the dead will bring disease upon this keep, it may even taint the wells beneath the walls.”
Gaelan looked once more upon the bodies. Hundreds of large crows were busily tearing at the flesh of the dead with their dark beaks. “They’re too many to bury, and I doubt the Morne would allow us to walk out and do so.”
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