Just after midnight, Gant saw the huge, black opening of a mammoth cave. There were no lights, no visible guards, no gates, drawbridges or portcullises, but Gant knew he was about to enter the Caverns of Darkness.
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The woodland nymph Dalphnia raced effortlessly through the woods alongside the road. She had been to Malathon but no one had seen Gant. She’d wasted more time there than she’d meant to and finally gave up and left the city. Once in the forest her magical empathy with the trees let her communicate with them through a primitive telepathy. So she’d questioned the trees. While they weren’t very good at distinguishing one man from another, they knew magic. And yes, they’d felt the passage of not one, but two men carrying swords of great power, traveling with several others. And they had ridden toward Blasseldune not long ago, although she knew “not long ago” to a tree might be a day, a month or anything in between. Trees just didn’t keep track of dates.
She headed for Blasseldune, running tirelessly through the woods, faster than the swiftest horse. The miles fell away. All around the trees whispered to her about the animals nearby, about what was ahead and to the sides. Trees were enchanted by her presence no matter where she went. Even in the dark she felt safe.
She wasn’t far from Blasseldune when the trees brought a different message, of men camped beside the road, several of them, with a campfire (trees always took note of fires) and horses tied nearby.
Gant, thought Dalphnia, and in her excitement, she rushed headlong into the camp without asking the trees if these men carried swords of power. She stopped in the dim circle of light from the dwindling campfire, having run so swiftly and silently she’d passed the lone sentry without an alarm. One look around and she realized her mistake.
There were six large, bushy bearded, armed men cast around the fire like sticks dropped by high winds. Before she could duck back into the forest, the guard shouted a warning. Several of them leaped to their feet, coming immediately to a half-crouch, swords drawn. They had her surrounded.
“What ‘ave we got here?” roared the largest one, brandishing his sword.
“Looks like just what we was lookin’ for,” said another, and lunged at her, his thick fingers eagerly grasping for her arm.
There was no time to exert her influence on these men. She dodged the initial rush and tried to push off a second attacker. Before she could escape she was tackled from behind. The force slammed her to the ground, knocking the wind out of her. She fought to get a breath.
“I’m first,” growled the leader, and he shoved the other man off of her. Roughly he clawed at her shoulder, rolling her over to face him. Her knees came up reflexively, but he thrust his hairy arms between them forcing her legs apart.
“Stop,” she hissed, “or else!”
“Or else what?” laughed one of the men in the circle.
Trees, she thought. I need help. She reached out using the empathy she had with trees to the nearest oak and the 80-foot tall tree responded. A three-inch thick limb swooped down shattering the skull of the man on top of Dalphnia. Blood and brains splashed across the carpet of dead leaves beside Dalphnia. He was dead before he fell over.
Another limb caught the man next to him in the chest knocking him over backwards. He yelped in pain and rolled away from the tree.
“What the ‘ell’s happenin’,” snapped one of the assailants.
“Th-the tree hit ‘em,” managed another.
Dalphnia was on her feet. The remaining men cowered away, their eyes glued to the trees.
“Hey, didn’t mean no harm, just ‘avin’ a little fun,” said one, his forced smile ripe with fear.
“Fun for whom?” she growled. “I suggest you learn how to treat a lady.”
“Yes, m’m. We’ll be rememberin’ that.”
“I’m sure you will.”
With that Dalphnia raced back into the woods, remembering to ask the trees specifically about swords with strong magic.
Chapter 37
Amelia woke slowly. It was dark. The stiff scratchy hay itched her bare skin. Why was her bed so uncomfortable? Slowly, the burning fire in her shoulder brought her back to reality. She lay buried deep in hay piled atop a wagon.
Around her she heard sobbing and wailing and an occasional scream. She remembered the terrible black creature and its attack. Barlon must have called forth more hellish spawn.
Cautiously she clawed her way up through the hay until her head poked out. Peering through a thin veil of the stalks, she noticed the light from a hooded lantern moving furtively around inside the tavern next to the wagon. Here and there, dim lights flickered on and off in other buildings. Almost everywhere it was dark. Down the street thick flames licked up the side of an old, wooden church. Heavy black smoke rolled away into the night sky. An occasional breeze blew her the nauseous stench of burning flesh.
For a moment she lay still, collecting her wits. What happened to Pogor? Overhead she heard the sound of leathery wings. Amelia froze, fearing detection, remembering her nightmare attacker. She lay perfectly still until whatever it was passed overhead.
Slowly, she got up on her hands and knees and inched toward the back of the wagon. As she neared the open back end, the hay thinned and she realized she was naked. Somewhere in the castle her white gown lay where she’d left it. It never occurred to her that she wouldn’t be back to retrieve it. Now she looked with new interest at the light moving inside the tavern.
Maybe there were clothes inside that she could get to without being seen. She hunkered down in the hay, burrowing deeper into the thin layer near the back of the wagon.
A rasping cough from beneath the wagon made Amelia go rigid, afraid even to breathe. Another cough, a heavy throat clearing and then a loud spit. She heard cloth rustling as someone struggled to sit up followed by distinctive noises from someone large trying to stand up. A loud crack resounded as their skull bumped the bottom of the wagon.
“By the Great Dragon’s Fire,” grumbled a familiar voice.
More rustling and a dark figure with broad shoulders rose from under the wagon. The man rubbed his head and looked around as if perplexed. He turned toward the inn, seemed to make up his mind, and headed for the steps. As his head turned to the right, Amelia caught his full profile silhouetted against the light from the burning church. It was Sir Jarlz!
“Sir Jarlz,” she rasped through pain-clenched teeth, but the big man lurched up the stone steps. “Sir Jarlz,” she said louder. “In the wagon.”
He stopped, glanced behind him, and then peered through the darkness at the wagon. Unsteadily he retraced his steps. Amelia hastily brushed aside the thin layer of hay covering her face.
“Amelia,” said Sir Jarlz, reaching the back of the wagon. “What are you doing here?”
“I need a dress. Or breeches and a shirt that fit,” she said, ignoring his question.
“What?” A startled look came over his rugged face. “Has some evil befallen you? Ruffians accosted your womanhood?”
“Nothing like that. I crashed here. My dress is in the castle somewhere, but I’m not going back to get it.”
Understanding surged through Jarlz’ eyes. “Wait here. I’ll fetch something from the tavern.”
Happily she retreated into the hay burying her head once more.
Sir Jarlz shook his head to clear away the last of his nagging hangover, the reasons for it forgotten in favor of more important matters. He turned and mounted the stairs to the main tavern door. He pulled on the handle. It was locked.
“Open up in there,” he shouted, thumping his fist on the doorframe.
There was a scurrying inside, the door swished open and a large pair of hands snatched Sir Jarlz off the stoop into the common room. A hooded lantern sat on one table blocked off so only a thin pencil of light showed. The plump mistress of the inn and her rotund husband stared wild-eyed at the weaponless knight.
“Are you trying to get us killed?” asked the innkeeper gruffly.
Jarlz loo
ked around again. The inn was empty except for the couple in front of him. No lights, no fire in the hearth. The windows were tightly closed and shuttered.
“Where is everyone?”
“Gone,” was the innkeeper’s answer. “Left town, or trying to. Now, what do you want?”
“I need a dress.”
The tavern owner took half a step back. His wife covered her open mouth with one hand.
“It’s not for me. My friend in the alley lost hers and needs something to wear.”
The couple relaxed noticeably. “How big is she?” asked the woman, her face taking on a gossip’s knowing smile.
“Just a wisp of a thing,” said Jarlz, holding up his hand to indicate her height, and then spreading his hands to show her approximate size.
“We’ve got nothing,” said the man, beads of sweat on his wrinkled forehead.
“No, I don’t, but one of the serving girls is sure to have left something,” added the woman and before either of the men could react she grabbed the lantern and ducked into the kitchen, leaving them in darkness.
For a few minutes Jarlz stood patiently listening to the soft click of the cupboard doors opening and closing. Curious, he asked the innkeeper, “What has happened? This afternoon a man could buy a mug of ale and rest here. Now, you say everyone is fleeing Pogor. There are fires down the street and I see no one fighting them. And your tavern is dark.”
The chubby man wiped his forehead with the back of one hand.
“It’s Gorth,” he said. “He’s brought more demons and turned them loose. This afternoon, shortly after, eh, shortly after we escorted you out, they started coming from the castle. Big black, evil, lawless things. They killed anyone on the street. Then came the men and they killed more. People ran, everyone ran.
“Well, almost everyone. Martha, she’s my wife, and I couldn’t run,” he let his hands sweep down over his bulk to indicate why. “So we hid in the secret cellar we built years ago when we were outside the wall before the new wall was built. They came, stomping around upstairs. We stayed down there and just came up a little while ago. We thought we could sneak away tonight.”
Jarlz remained quiet, thinking. Something was wrong. Barlon had never mentioned razing Pogor, and though now with his mind his own again Jarlz knew him for what he was, Jarlz doubted Gorth would allow this. With the town destroyed, it left his army without supplies.
As far as bringing in more demons, if they brought one they could bring more. And more demons meant more fighting and Jarlz was totally unarmed and helpless.
“Do you have any weapons? Anything we could use to defend ourselves?”
“Only the axe over the hearth. It's old. My grandfather brought it back with him from the dwarfen wars. It’s still in good shape. Shiny as the day it was made. Take it if it’ll help. It’s yours.”
“Well it’s not my first choice in weapons, but it’ll have to do,” said Jarlz, noticing that the light was returning from the kitchen.
“Here you are,” said Martha, holding out a plain brown dress of coarse cloth that appeared only slightly too large for Amelia.
Jarlz took it, flipped it over his shoulder and went to the mantle. Above the broad fire pit, a beautiful, short-handled forester’s axe hung in iron cleats sunk into the stone chimney.
Jarlz took it down and hefted it. It was perfectly balanced and the edge glittered razor sharp in the dim light. A set of strange runes adorned the head. To test its edge, he ran the cutting surface along his hairy left forearm. A soft sigh escaped involuntarily as his forearm was shaved smooth as a newborn’s behind.
“You certainly must have gone to a lot of work to keep this in such good shape.”
“No,” said the innkeeper, “I’ve never taken it from the hooks.”
Jarlz hefted the axe and tried to think of a way to repay them for such a gift. “Pogor isn’t safe anymore. We need to get out of the city. I think it’ll be better if we go together.”
The innkeeper and his wife exchanged fearful looks.
“I’m Sir Jarlz, late of Netherdorf Castle. You know the city and I can protect you. It’ll be best for us both.”
Still the two did not seem convinced.
“I’ve been working in secret for the true king,” the knight added, trying to cover his own guilt as well as ease their fears. “Looks like you’ll need help and I could use someone who knows the city.”
Still the couple hesitated.
“Well, if I wanted to kill you, I’d do it now.”
A curt nod passed between them. Martha picked up the lantern and slipped away into the kitchen.
“I’m Jonathan Stonethumb. Martha’s gone to get our son, Ratheyon. He’s our last. Plague got the other two, and we won’t be havin’ any more. He’s all we’ve got.”
“We’ll make it,” said Jarlz. “Hurry and make sure you’ve got enough food and drink. I’ve got to go out for a moment. I’ll be right back.”
The innkeeper nodded, but Jarlz was already out the door. He went to the wagon and tossed Amelia the dress.
“Took long enough,” she snapped, wriggling into the simple gown while trying to stay concealed under the hay.
“We’re leaving Pogor. The innkeeper and his family are going with us. I don’t know what’s happened, how Barlon could allow this. Everything’s gone crazy. I think I’ve gone crazy, too.”
Amelia crawled out of the wagon. Her shoulder oozed blood where the black thing’s talons had ripped her open. The blood refused to clot and already, a tiny spot moistened her dress.
“You’re hurt,” said Jarlz, reaching gently for the wounded shoulder. Just then the rustle of dry wings sent them both diving beneath the wagon.
Long minutes passed in silence. Amelia peeked out from under the wagon. It was too dark to see anything overhead. They waited a few minutes more, and then slipped into the tavern, where Martha, Jonathan and a young boy sat huddled around the lantern as if somehow its light could protect them.
The boy was thin, unlike his parents, and sat stone-like, his hands folded in his lap. He looked to be no more than eight or nine years old with a straw-like shock of hair bristling from his head. He flinched as Jarlz and Amelia entered.
Quickly Jarlz introduced Amelia, and then asked, “What’s the best way out?”
“This way,” said Jonathan, taking the lantern and heading out through the ransacked cooking area.
Martha and Ratheyon followed closely behind the innkeeper. Jarlz hefted the axe in his right hand, helped Amelia with the other, and went out the back door, following the bobbing light. They went down a narrow, twisting alley to the left, at every step imagining that they’d be attacked by monsters.
At each turn they stopped and peered cautiously around the corner before proceeding. Jarlz kept a lookout behind them and was soon satisfied they weren’t being followed. They moved through a maze of back streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares. It wasn’t long before Jarlz saw the outer wall rising over the top of the clustered houses. Here the innkeeper stopped, staring out across a wide street.
Up and down on both sides of the street buildings were burning, filling the street with a hellish glow.
“We have to cross here.” Jonathan pointed to a narrow opening between buildings on the opposite side of the street.
Jarlz peeked out around the corner of the buildings and noted that the street ran straight to a gate less than a hundred yards farther. “Why? We could make a run for that gate from here.”
“Maybe you,” said the stout innkeeper, “but not us. In any case, the main gate will be guarded. Where I’m going, there’s a narrow gate used by some of the merchants to avoid the taxes at the main gates. We’ve a better chance there.”
Jarlz looked to Amelia who nodded her approval. They were just about to cross the street when two men dashed around a corner farther up the main street followed by a young girl. One of the men carried a blacksmith’s hammer clenched tight in his right hand.
In hot pursuit were
two gigantic black monsters with burning red eyes. Each stood a good deal taller than Jarlz and much broader. In their hands were short, curved knives that glinted menacingly in the red flames from nearby buildings.
As they watched, the closest beast tackled the girl, pinned her to the street and with one powerful stroke, severed her head with the razor-like knife. The men never faltered, running for their lives with the second beast close behind.
“Cowards,” spat Sir Jarlz through clenched teeth, and tensed as if ready to attack.
“No,” came Amelia's soft voice at his shoulder. Her fragile hand gripped tightly around his bicep. “You can’t help them, and it would doom us.”
Jarlz nodded sadly. Inside more guilt piled atop the mound already there. He vowed silently that somehow he would wreak revenge for these atrocities.
The first monster finished with the girl and lurched upright, looking first one way and then the other. Flaring red nostrils sucked in the air, sniffing for new victims. The group in the alley huddled back in the darkness. Minutes passed like hours until finally the hulking slasher lumbered off down the street. A horrible scream echoed down the rows of once prosperous buildings. Another victim had been caught.
They waited only a few minutes more, and then one-by-one dashed across the street to the alley beyond. Jarlz went first, the axe ready, while the others waited. The alley was empty and dark. Jarlz motioned for the others to follow. Amelia, Martha, Ratheyon and finally Jonathan made it across as fast as they could.
“Which way?” asked Jarlz once they’d all reached the alley’s relative safety.
“That way,” said Jonathan and pointed up the alley. He scurried ahead, turning down another alley that branched off to the right. A couple of more turns and twists and they saw the small, wooden door set in the thick sandstone outer wall.
Jarlz called a halt and the tired bunch slipped into the deep shadows of an overhanging balcony. Nothing moved. The darkness surrounding the doorway was so deep that a dozen men could have hidden there. Off to the left, someone screamed. Everyone tensed.
Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) Page 24
