Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1)

by J Drew Brumbaugh

  Maybe the trees were wrong. Maybe there was no one. And yet trees did not make up stories. Knowing Dalphnia sought a new mate the aspens had sent word from one tree to another. The leaves whispered of a young traveler who had entered the beast’s cave with a sword of power and magical armor. Quickly that message reached Dalphnia’s forest. She loved her forest and the trees loved her. They convinced Dalphnia to leave the safety of her forest and journey to the aspen grove. She had been without a husband for some time and thoughts of a suitable candidate made her heart seethe with dreams of a new romance, her kind of romance.

  Finally, under the twinkling stars, Dalphnia saw a hunched form crawl from the cave, struggling to put one hand in front of the other. Her strange, brown eyes could see as well during the darkest night as they could in broad daylight and as she watched, the figure stopped.

  For a long moment, she waited. The air sighed a funeral dirge. Dalphnia sprang forward, like a lioness after an antelope. In an instant she was beside the fallen figure. If this man could survive a fight with the monster in that cave, then surely he was intended to be her next husband.

  She knelt beside him and touched his silvery armor. It resonated with a magic power that brought back memories of great wizards, of a past she had nearly forgotten. Even as she watched, the punctures in the armor healed. No one alive could make such armor and Dalphnia wondered how this man came to have it.

  Gently she rolled him over. He groaned softly. Good, she thought, he’s alive. Now, if I can only get him back to my wood, I can save him. And he's mine! She slid one hand under his head and the other under his legs. Expecting the armor to be heavy, she braced herself, and then heaved upward, practically leaping off the ground. The armor was as light as a feather, and though the man was heavily muscled, she lifted him easily. Her lithe frame held a magical strength that was a part of who she was, a magic of her own.

  “Hold on precious man,” she whispered and started across the meadow, vaulting the stream and dashing back through the aspens. “It won't take long and I'll have you home.”

  Instead of following the road, Dalphnia turned between the rolling hills into the deepest forest. She ran like a deer, as if unburdened, following animal trails through the forest. A few times the man in her arms sighed and twisted weakly against her grip.

  Within a half hour they reached the huge ancient oak that held her tree house. A spiral staircase of intertwining roots and limbs twisted one over the other around the trunk. She carried the man up the stairs into the main room, which was nothing more than a myriad of intertwined limbs. The roof was a layer of leaves overlapped so tightly no rain could enter. She crossed the main room and went into a side room. Here she laid her precious burden on a bed formed by more thick branches with a fluffy leaf mattress.

  It took her a few minutes to remove the armor. She tossed it on the floor. Now she examined the wounds left by Egog’s slimy, poisonous teeth. She knew it was the poison that was killing Gant, not the actual punctures.

  Dalphnia dashed back down the staircase, and ran through her garden until she found the herbs and roots she needed: crown root, sage flower, heart leaf, link wort, and feather thorn. Some were to counteract the poison. Some were for her own special potion, the one that captured the hearts of her husbands. Some of her husbands had to be tricked into drinking the potion. Others had been oh so willing. This time there would be no resistance and once the potion did the initial work, her own hypnotic talents would hold this man to her for a lifetime; his lifetime that is. Yes, she would save this man, save him for herself.

  As soon as she’d collected everything she needed, she dashed back up into the tree house. A splash of water, some magical fire to heat the brew, and then to his bedside where she forced the dark liquid down his throat. He gagged and tried to push her away but she was too strong.

  She studied his youthful face. He was beautiful. Finally she had a new companion, her sixth husband. She leaned over and gently kissed his forehead. A smile crossed her face. She backed up a step and sat on the bent limb that served as a chair.

  Now she only had to wait. By morning, he would wake up. He would be hurting but the poison would be neutralized and the minute he woke and saw Dalphnia sitting there, his heart would belong to her. Maybe he would live a hundred years with her, others had. She looked forward to a future filled with love.

  Chapter 19

  Barlon paced around his chambers, his black mane sticking out wildly in all directions. Crisp fall winds cried at the shuttered windows, flapping the heavy tapestries hung to keep out the cold. Papers and maps cluttered the single large table; battle plans that went unused. The stools around the table were empty except for one. Razgoth sat pensively scratching the light colored stubble on his chin, listening to the thump of Barlon’s heavy boots on the oak planking. The Mountain Lord, as Barlon demanded to be called, paused at the end of each leg, looked at the wizard, hesitated, and then resumed his march.

  Things had gone smoothly except for the king’s escape. Now, everything hinged on one insignificant blacksmith who refused to forge the links for the amulet’s necklace chain. Without the chain, they could not make the medallion and without the medallion Barlon could not summon Varg. Without the demon prince, Barlon could do nothing. Despite torturing the fool and his wife, despite the whip and hot irons, despite Barlon’s best efforts to make him do it, he refused. Meanwhile the Alliance of Western Kingdoms pompously thumbed their noses at the insignificant Mountain King. Barlon would show them.

  Time was slipping away. Even with the medallion, Varg could only be summoned on a night of darkness; when both moons were missing from the sky. If Barlon wasn’t ready before the next such night, he would have to wait almost two years.

  Enough was enough. He stopped pacing. Razgoth looked up.

  “My smith will make the necklace chain,” said Barlon.

  “He's not as good.”

  “Why do we need a blacksmith to make the chain anyway? Why not the jeweler?”

  “This is no flimsy gold chain to dazzle the ladies. This needs to be strong enough to withstand the pressures that the magic will impose. It must be seamless with hefty links. It’ll take a talented blacksmith. Yours isn’t as good as the smith from Netherdorf.”

  “Good enough. The chain lends little to the magic.”

  “But any weak link may give Varg an escape point.”

  “I'll take the chance.”

  “As you wish,” said Razgoth, then muttered, “We all take the risk.”

  “See to it.”

  “And the smith from Netherdorf?”

  “Kill him.”

  Razgoth left the room and Barlon walked to the table. He rearranged the maps, examined his strategy and contemplated the defeat of those who had shamed him in the past. It seemed like only yesterday that he had been the commander of the former Mountain King’s troops. That king, Micus, had assigned him the mission of capturing the western slopes from the tribesmen who swore allegiance to the Western Kings. It had been a hard-fought campaign and the troops under Barlon’s superior guidance were on the verge of winning.

  Victory! That’s what should have happened. Instead, on the verge of glory, based only on reports that the Western Kings were massing their armies to counterattack, weak-willed King Micus gave up. Literally he begged the Western Kings for peace. The fool was replaced by Governor Sabbius and Barlon was discharged from service in disgrace. It was humiliating. The memory burned in his heart. Barlon could not allow his reputation to remain soiled. So Barlon had secretly gathered support from disenchanted military leaders and had eliminated the puppet governor.

  Barlon had himself installed as the new king and now he controlled the Mountain Kingdom. Still, he knew he could have won that day, knew it. He’d been betrayed by a cowardly king. Barlon would never trust anyone again. Let others beware.

  #

  Razgoth went immediately to the smithy to fetch Barlon’s blacksmith. He didn’t like it. Barlon took Varg much too
lightly, and now he wanted to have a lesser man fashion the necklace chain. It invited disaster. He’d take care of the Netherdorf smith later. Right now, there were more important things.

  Razgoth led Barlon’s smith down to the castle dungeon. In the first basement, a special forge and workshop had been constructed. On one side was a huge room whose roof was a massive set of doors that opened up into the courtyard. In that room sat Uric’s motionless statue trapped in a magic sphere where time stood still. The great dragon’s head gazed out through glassy eyes into the workshop where Razgoth led the blacksmith.

  Otherwise the place was empty. On the walls sticks with magic light spells cast on them bathed the workshop in a brilliant glare. On the tables lay gems and lumps of precious metals ready for final assembly. The preparations for the amulet had been completed as far as possible without the chain. The jeweler, goldsmith and other craftsmen had been more than helpful. Now Razgoth showed the blacksmith his task. The thick-armed man looked up once at the massive dragon’s head, gulped back his fear, and set to work.

  Slowly, the chains took shape. Here and there, Razgoth made suggestions, minor improvements, not based on knowledge of the forge, but on his knowledge of the magical requirements that would pose unusual strains on these chains.

  #

  Two days later, the chains were ready and the other craftsmen assembled. Barlon met Razgoth in the dungeon ready to complete the amulet.

  “Please,” Razgoth said to Barlon, “you must stand around the corner, out of Uric’s sight. I will create an illusion that looks exactly like you to fool him. Uric must not see two images or he will realize that he’s being tricked.”

  “But I won't be able to see.”

  “There'll be nothing to see if you do not.”

  “Very well,” said the Mountain King and stepped back out of sight.

  Razgoth glared at his team. “Ready?”

  They nodded. None spoke. Fear held their tongues.

  “Make no mistakes,” warned the wizard, and turned toward the shimmering sphere that held Uric captive in stasis.

  Razgoth waved his hands, sprinkled some dust and quoted the verse for the spell that could create an illusion of life. The falling dust particles stopped in midair, congealing into a life-like Barlon Gorth. He followed that with another spell that would allow the illusion to speak when the time came.

  Now, Razgoth's face darkened, carefully he quoted the verse and gestures that controlled time. Ever so slowly he evoked a weak spot in the sphere surrounding Uric. The weakness grew until it opened a hole exposing Uric’s head. Razgoth allowed the weakness to spread back along the dragon’s neck until breath again flared Uric’s nostrils.

  “You may surrender,” said the illusion. “We will not harm you.”

  In Uric’s mind he was still on the castle steps with the battle for Netherdorf Castle raging in front of him. The images that remained in his mind were of his enemy killing King Tirmus’ troops. Before Uric could detect the illusion, a torrent of fire surged from Uric’s mouth destroying the image of Barlon Gorth. Hotter than any mortal forge, the rushing flames flew past the illusion and struck the waiting metals on the stone table. The instant the metals softened, Razgoth reversed his incantation and the sphere of timelessness reformed around Uric. Once again time ceased for the dragon.

  Razgoth turned away from Uric. The craftsmen were busy making the amulet. Fear slowed them and their fingers shook.

  “Faster idiots. This trick will only work once. The amulet must be complete before the metals cool.”

  To speed them Razgoth rattled off a simple verse and tiny sparks appeared to tickle the hesitant craftsmen. They worked feverishly, disregarding the intense heat that burned careless fingers. Soon the gleaming product of their labors lay cooling on the blackened stone table.

  It was large, half the size of a kitchen plate, and wrought with such intricate detail that it seemed alive. At the center was an ugly, semi-human caricature, four armed with claws instead of hands, and a face that swept upward and backward from the cheekbones into what seemed like miniature wings for ears. Around this miniature metallic beast was a twisting, interwoven myriad of inseparable, golden metal threads. Jewels encircled the rim, and they too seemed to be connected magically to the net of metal threads. The amulet seemed to be alive and the pattern ever-changing. The monster inside the woven net appeared to rip away at the mesh while the threads constantly reformed to block escape. And yet, if you looked away from the amulet and then looked back nothing had changed.

  Barlon came out of his hiding place and stood beside his wizard. Side-by-side they admired the handiwork.

  “Guards,” commanded Barlon. “Take them back to their cells.”

  “But you said we'd go free,” managed the jeweler before he was knocked to the ground.

  “First we must see if your work was successful.”

  Barlon laughed as they dragged the helpless craftsmen from the workshop. His plan was unfolding perfectly. Doomsday would soon be upon his enemies.

  “And now we are ready to summon Varg,” said Barlon.

  Razgoth gave him a sour look. “I have to complete the magic of the amulet. Ten days, maybe more. Then we must wait for the Night of Darkness.”

  “Yes, I know.” Furrows of concentration wrinkled Barlon's forehead. “I'll be in the war room.”

  Barlon left the wizard to his task, hating delay, yet happy to be close to action again. Soon they would summon Varg and his invincible army would march. The three Western Kingdoms were doomed.

  Chapter 20

  Gant leaned against a black-skinned walnut tree. The day was peaceful. He enjoyed the soft breeze and the occasional patch of sunshine that slipped through the fluttering leaves high overhead. He couldn't remember ever feeling so good. The warm glow of ecstasy filled his veins. In fact he remembered very little prior to coming to Dalphnia’s woods.

  A butterfly flitted by lazily, working its wings in paired strokes. Lightly, the orange and black insect drifted in to land on a bright red flower. A hummingbird buzzed around Dalphnia's flower garden too. Gant watched it dart from flower to flower and then zip off to wherever it called home.

  He twisted his head to watch Dalphnia’s lithe form coming up the trail. Her long brown hair rippled lightly over her shoulders, her step was springy, almost as if her feet never touched the ground. She hummed softly to herself.

  “How do you feel this morning?”

  “Very well, thanks.”

  “Your wounds healed well.” She smiled when she spoke and her words came out like tinkling chimes.

  Gant thought only of her. Other memories were like distant dreams. She was tall and athletic. Gant had seen many women with fuller figures, but Dalphnia’s beauty was in her slender, graceful strength. She moved as if floating. Her eyes were a deep brown, the color of polished walnut, and burned with intelligence. Gant had no idea how old Dalphnia was. She seemed younger than he was, but understood so much more than he did. She was patient and had a magical rapport with the trees. Her skin was soft, smooth as cream at the top of milk, but it seemed to change color from tan to dull green. She was beautiful. Gant felt his heart pound every time she came near.

  “I guess so,” he said finally, though he couldn’t remember having any wounds.

  “Today you should be ready for a walk. I’ll show you my forest.”

  Gant rose slowly. His muscles responded stiffly, but without pain. Tightness persisted in several places along his back, but the euphoria he felt near Dalphnia eased even that.

  “Come,” she said, taking his arm.

  Her skin felt electric. Gant’s every nerve cried for her touch. Her fingertips against his upper arm sent shivers through him.

  They walked along the winding path down the slope away from Dalphnia’s treehouse. A blanket of brown needles marked the trail even though there were no pine trees in sight. She pointed out oaks, maples, beech, hickory and walnut trees. Once passed the hardwoods, they came to an intim
ate pine glade where it was easy to get lost in the thick evergreen boughs. Scattered clumps of wildflowers displayed her artistic handiwork.

  Now and again, Dalphnia let her arm encircle Gant’s waist. She hugged him lightly, like a parent does a child. Gant felt stirrings that were not new, but were different. Here was a woman that filled him not with a juvenile lust, but something fuller, stronger, more powerful. He longed to enfold her in his arms, but didn’t. Somehow it didn’t seem like the right time.

  The trail circled around until they were heading back toward Dalphnia’s home. All through her forest Gant noticed that the trees were taller and stronger than any others in the forest. Every variety was there even a grove of fruit trees: apple, cherry, pear, and peach, and each bore fruit, full and ripe.

  Gant wondered how that could be since it was not the season for fruit.

  “How can the trees have fruit?” he asked.

  “They always have fruit,” she laughed, as if that answered his question. Farther along, there was an open meadow in the midst of the towering trees. The grass was short, lush and green. In the middle was a row of five thin stone slabs set in the ground with names engraved on them. Gant saw them but only had eyes for Dalphnia and they passed by without comment.

  Finally they strolled back up the gentle slope to Dalphnia’s treehouse. As they walked she told him stories about the birds and little animals of the forest, calling them by names unfamiliar to Gant. She giggled between anecdotes, squeezing his arm, hugging him. Gant felt tired in a good way. Muscles that had gone unused felt warm and responsive again. Much of the tightness in his shoulders, chest, and legs had disappeared.

  Again he wondered about his injuries. “Why do you ask me about my wounds? I don't remember any wounds.”