“What about his forces at Netherdorf Castle? They’ll be at our backs,” said an elf near the front of the throng on the main floor.
“Good question, Lord Mesthane, and for that we trust to aid from Mulldain. As I said, Barlon’s garrisons on our side of the Monoliths are small. King Herzolt has enough troops to defeat them, especially if King Tirmus and his knights ride with them.”
“Will they come?” asked several of the elves in the crowd.
Sarona looked coolly from face to face. “Who knows if any human will ever side with a Dark Elf? We will know soon. Our runners should have made it to Mull City by now, and our answer may already be on its way back.”
A murmur of questions and supposition ran through the crowd, only to be quieted as the Queen motioned for silence. “What of the dragons, Dragon King?” she asked, staring at Uric.
Uric spoke without apology, considering each word carefully. “I won’t ask their assistance. This is a matter of men, not dragons. I stay involved myself only out of love for my long departed friend, Bartholomew. I vowed to see this finished, and I will.”
Another murmur passed through the crowd. When things quieted, Abadis cleared his throat loudly. All eyes turned to him. “What of the High Elves? Will your cousins help?”
Sarona’s mood darkened. “As you know, there is no love lost between us. We will not humble ourselves before them. In any case, they are not eager to meddle in the affairs of men either.” She paused and then added, “Any suggestions, or questions?”
Uric stepped forward. “Pardon my question,” he said deferentially, “but how old is your intelligence on Gorth’s positions?”
“Runners arrive each morning and each afternoon.”
“The messenger never came this morning, Your Majesty,” said one sheepish noble.
“Perhaps it is time I went to see for myself,” suggested Uric.
“I agree, Queen Sarona,” added Abadis. “Your scout is long overdue. Perhaps Barlon has caught some of them.”
“Maybe,” said Sarona coldly, “and I appreciate your concern for your granddaughter, but let us see what the afternoon runners bring. Until then, rest, eat and prepare for the battle that cannot be far away.”
Uric nodded agreement. Slowly the group disbanded. Several elves stayed to suggest alternate attack and defense strategies. That soon broke down to telling stories of ancient wars and glorious victories.
Gant, Uric and Abadis were escorted out of the War Hall by a young Dark Elf. As they walked, Gant asked, “Why don’t they get along with the High Elves?”
Uric answered. “Long ago, there was only one race of elves. But in those times, Varg and his kind were free to enter this world as they chose. In time he seduced a number of the elfin maids to his evil ways. Their offspring became the Dark Elves.”
“But Batholomew freed them from Varg,” interjected Gant.
“True. Their hearts are no darker than yours or mine but their cousins still see only their black skin.”
“That's stupid,” said Gant.
“No more so than a hundred other prejudices,” said Abadis.
At that point they were ushered into a large banquet hall where Zandinar, Pris and the other Easterners waited impatiently.
“Where’ve you been?” shouted Pris, bouncing from his chair to greet them.
“Discussing strategy with the Queen,” said Gant, smiling at the emperor’s boyish energy.
“Then we’ll be going to war soon?”
“Probably.”
“Great. I’ll get to go west of the Monoliths, finally.”
“Probably not,” said Gant.
“Why not?” Pris’ smile faded. “The Mountain Lord has taken the Western Kingdoms. Won’t we be attacking him?”
“Pris,” snapped Gant, “this is not a game. Gorth will probably attack us. First Blasseldune, then your Empire.”
“Yes, of course,” said Pris, now dead serious.
Gant saw Captain Hesh and Kalmine exchange whispered comments. Before Pris could ask any more questions, Gant walked over to where Uric and Abadis were talking softly. At the same time, two elf maids brought in heaping platters of food, roast venison, steaming and dripping in its natural juices, and piles of steamed vegetables. The succulent aroma made Gant’s mouth water. The rest of the group headed for places at the table as another elf maid brought in a tray laden with fine wines.
Gant touched Uric’s arm to gain his attention. “What did she mean when she called you the Dragon King?”
“Just what she said.”
“Are you a dragon? If so, how come I’ve have never seen you except as the castle sage?”
“I never intended anyone to know. Now it seems everyone does.”
“There are more of you? I mean more dragons?”
“Yes, there are still a few dozen of us left, but only two mated pairs. We reproduce so slowly it may be a hundred years before there is another birth.”
“Then why won’t you help us?”
“Hatred dies hard. Long ago there were a lot of dragons. Men feared us, hated us, mostly without reason, though there were some dragons who deserved that hatred. Heroes sought out dragons to kill often without thought as to whether the dragon they killed was evil or good. And though we are powerful, we are not invincible. Many of us were killed by men. We moved far from men, living in self-imposed exile. Most of those alive today had loved ones killed by men. Hatred fills their hearts. I feel for them and understand why they will not help men, even good men.”
Gant thought about it. Strange how complex good and bad could become. He would try to remember how easy it was to confuse the two and never to take up Valorius against an enemy until there was proof of his evil. A shame that such noble creatures as dragons could be forever alienated from humans because of a few misguided men. But now, the smell of delicious food and the busy sounds of others already at the table overwhelmed Gant, and he headed for a seat at the table.
Chapter 41
After eating there was little to do but wait for the afternoon runner. Uric and Abadis left with a craggy ancient elf to discuss some obscure principle of magic. Pris and his entourage went on a tour of the elf stronghold led by a young, 72-year-old elf that Pris had met the night before. That left only Gant and Zandinar in the dining area.
Sitting across the table from Zandinar, Gant wondered what the enigmatic warrior was really like. For all the time they’d spent together, Gant knew hardly anything about him except that he claimed to have a destiny tied to Gant. Maybe they were more alike than Gant wanted to admit. Gant had a destiny, one he didn’t want but couldn’t seem to escape.
“What’s this destiny you talk about?” asked Gant.
A deep sadness filled Zandinar's blue eyes. “It is what I must do.”
“Must do? Who makes you do it?”
Zandinar didn’t answer.
“Surely you’ve been doing other things before you met me.”
“Yes. I’ve championed the rights of the oppressed. But that was only to pass the time until I met you. Now I need to do what must be done.”
Gant pursed his lips at the cryptic answer. “Then you see the future?”
“No. Only my fate.”
Gant saw that Zandinar was becoming uncomfortable. He felt guilty prying into Zandinar’s life. But still, Gant wanted to know the man, know who he was. He told himself to let it be and set aside the other questions on his mind. Zandinar rose and left the room.
Gant sat for a while thinking about his own future. He thought about Dalphnia and her woods. If he ever got through this he would go back. He hoped she would be waiting. As far as he was concerned, he’d had enough adventure to last a lifetime.
And then Gant thought about his parents. They might be alive. Probably not. Why would Barlon spare them? He hoped they hadn’t suffered. Silently he cursed having been away from Netherdorf that day. And what about Uncle Jarlz? And Abadis’ granddaughter? The price of war came high.
Eventually
he left the banquet hall and returned to their quarters. Once there the door hissed open and Gant slipped into the sitting room. The door hissed shut behind him. A muffled cough from the corner startled Gant. He spun toward the sound but no one was there.
Immediately Valorius was in his hand. He’d heard of people being invisible. Had Barlon’s men penetrated the Caverns of Darkness? Was this another trick to get Valorius? Tentatively Gant probed the air in front of him with the tip of his sword, feeling for anything solid.
A hushed snicker sputtered from the hallway behind him. Gant glanced over his shoulder and saw Pris, hand clapped over his mouth fighting laughter. An elf crouched behind the emperor, grinning mischievously. Gant lowered his sword and turned on them.
“What’s so funny?”
“You,” answered Pris making jabbing motions with his hand.
Both of them snickered again.
“I thought I heard someone in the room,” said Gant gruffly and returned Valorius to her scabbard.
The elf and emperor laughed louder.
“You heard something like this?” asked Pris, mumbling an arcane phrase with a twist of his fingers and then pointing to the corner.
A loud cough burst from the spot where he’d pointed.
Reflexively Gant spun toward the noise. Now Pris and the elf burst out laughing. Gant stomped over to them, hands on hips, glaring.
“What’s this all about?”
Pris forced back more laughter and tried to explain between gasps for breath. “Oakentile is teaching me magic,” he answered. He got control of his spasms. “He says I’ve got a natural ability and could someday become a great mage. Like Abadis.”
“So, what’s the cough?” Gant asked, still unamused.
“It’s really harmless,” said Oakentile, defensively.
“And simple, too,” added Pris, rattling off the words and finger movements again. Another loud cough came from the corner.
Gant ignored it. “If you’ve a talent for it, it’s good that you get the chance to learn but isn’t it dangerous? I’ve heard of wizards self-destructing. Blowing themselves up with a failed spell. Maybe you should ask Abadis’ advice.”
“It’s true that messing up a spell can be dangerous,” said Oakentile. “But I only know a few simple spell exercises that don’t call up enough energy to do any real harm. Even messed up they aren’t very dangerous. The worst might be a slight shock. These are really just mental exercises. A wizard has to have total control of his own mind first, you know. But Pris already has better mental control than I do so I thought I’d show him a little.”
That’s good,” said Gant, pushing past towards his bedroom, “but could you practice somewhere else?”
“Sure,” said Pris and they scampered off.
Gant entered his bedroom and started going through his equipment. If they were going to battle, he wanted to be sure everything was ready. He took his time unpacking everything, laying it out, cleaning and repairing or replacing things.
By the time Uric and Abadis returned, Gant had finished with his equipment and was back in the sitting room.
“Back so soon?” asked Gant jokingly.
“I eventually get hungry,” said Abadis, eyeing Uric.
“Then go eat,” suggested Uric, “I have better things to do.”
“I thought we were waiting for the afternoon runner,” said Gant, suddenly aware of the tension.
“He never made it,” said Uric flatly. “I’m going to see why.”
“Gorth may have already marched,” added Abadis. “Many of the elves think it is too late to cut him off at Chamber Pass.”
“Then we should be marching to meet him,” said Gant.
“As soon as I return. Eat while you can,” replied Uric.
Abadis nodded and motioned Gant out the door. “We’ll see you soon,” Abadis said to Uric as he and Gant headed for the dining hall.
As soon as the others were gone, Uric’s body shimmered and reformed into a small, intensely yellow canary. Then, with a dainty sweep of his wings, like a specter, he flitted through the passages and out of the Caverns of Darkness. He flew westward, following the broken ridge of the Misery Mountains.
He raced along the south foothills as the sun sank behind the horizon. When darkness covered the world, and men’s eyes could no longer see what passed overhead, the tiny canary lengthened, its wingspan stretched until finally Uric resumed his natural form. As a dragon he winged westward covering the miles effortlessly. His gleaming reptilian eyes seeing more than any human eyes could.
Uric followed the Misery Mountains west until they butted up against the towering Monoliths. Here he wheeled to the left and headed south. He passed high over the Mountain Castle of Barlon Gorth and flew on toward Chamber Pass. At the pass he peeled off to the right and followed the Great East-West road, sure that somewhere along this route he’d find Barlon Gorth’s armies camped.
Instead, he saw a dozen wheeling, flapping black shapes, squawking at each other in an alien tongue. It was a language unfamiliar to Uric and instantly he was on alert. Uric had spent eight centuries in this world and here was a creature he had never encountered. He needed an explanation.
As the dragon sped toward the flyers, they squawked and whirled toward Uric, intent on guarding their territory. At first, they flew directly toward the dragon. As the flyers neared Uric and realized what they faced their orderly pattern broke. Panic stricken they turned and fled for Pogor, shrieking like a flock of blue jays.
Uric considered chasing them, sure that he could catch one of the obnoxious things and find out where they’d come from. Suddenly, a blaze of light erupted in the hills to his right. He banked and gave up the pursuit to investigate this unexplainable beacon.
#
Among the boulders, Sir Jarlz glared into the engulfing darkness. Any moment the demons would rush them, tearing into his party. Unable to see the enemy, he felt helpless.
“Amelia,” whispered Jarlz in the direction where he’d last seen the frail girl, “can you light a fire? Quickly! If we can see these monsters, we’ll have a chance.”
“Don’t bother with a fire,” said the robed stranger in a rasping voice, “I’ll give you light.”
Jarlz heard the man scramble atop a large flat rock. The stranger mumbled arcane words, made intricate motions, and with the last pinch of mage’s powder left to him, produced a dazzling sphere of intense white light. He cradled the glowing globe in his cupped hands and held it high overhead illuminating the area around them.
In the brilliant light Jarlz recognized the face, though the features had aged tremendously in such short a time. It was Barlon’s personal wizard, Razgoth. What was he doing here? There was no time to think about it. In the glaring light a dozen of the monstrous assassins were visible. There were slashers and the four-armed, sickle-clawed slayers that leaped like frogs. Stunned by the sudden burst of light they held up a hand or claw to shield their eyes.
Jarlz leaped at the nearest creature, bringing the axe down solidly on its neck. There was a sharp crack as the dwarven axe bit through the spine and severed the head.
Immediately the circle of beasts went on the attack. Two of the monsters rushed Jarlz, their knives flashing. Another attacked Amelia. Three more surged around the innkeeper’s family while others encircled Razgoth.
Jarlz retreated until his back was against a tall stone slab. The two creatures in front of him feinted, slashed and dodged, but Jarlz kept them at bay with the longer reach of the axe. But his strength ebbed quickly. Lack of sleep took its toll. He knew he couldn’t hold out for long.
Amelia rolled away from her attacker into a crevice between two boulders. She pressed herself down as small as possible and slithered into the narrow opening just ahead of razor-sharp claws. Pain flared in her shoulder. She ignored it, bent on escaping the death that now dug frantically at the rock opening.
Jonathan and Ratheyon, armed with the hooked knives they’d picked up earlier, formed a protect
ive shield around Martha. The closest monster slashed out with hooked claws. Ratheyon chopped down on the creature’s exposed forearm, cutting deeply. The arm jerked back.
Another slayer rushed in, slashed twice at Jonathan and pushed past, groping for Martha.
Pain burned the innkeeper’s ribs where one of the claws ripped into his chest. He ignored it, his wife’s danger fueling his frenzy. He leaped on the beast from behind throwing one arm around its neck. Stinging cold surged through his body. Jonathan slashed into its back with the knife. Blood and gore spewed like a fountain. The two of them went down in a heap at Martha’s feet. The third beast leaped for Jonathan’s back but Ratheyon intercepted it with a quick upward thrust to the ribs. The first monster shook off the wound in his forearm and scrambled back into the battle.
Meanwhile, Razgoth held the ball of light as high as he could with one hand. Deftly he reached into his robes with the other and brought out a small green dart. With a flick of the wrist he cast it at the nearest attacker. True to the target the little dart sped. It struck the monster square in the chest, penetrated only slightly, and then erupted in a fiery blast that opened the black chest cavity like a broken pumpkin.
Enraged, three more beasts rushed Razgoth. They swarmed over him slashing and cutting with talons and knives. Valiantly the mage held the light aloft until he was crushed under by the weight of his adversaries. The light bounced once and went out.
Darkness flooded the camp. The demon-beasts howled with delight, leaping and cavorting, slashing wildly in the darkness. Suddenly a buffeting hurricane blasted across the rocks from a mighty pair of wings. A massive shape hovered only a few feet overhead. Glinting reptilian eyes searched for prey, and faster than the eye could follow, the great dragon’s head shot out. Huge fangs snapped closed on the slayer bearing down on Ratheyon.
With one claw Uric fired glowing bolts of green that struck with unerring accuracy. Beasts fell like dead leaves. Suddenly the cramped hollow between the giant rocks became a death pit for Varg’s minions. Within seconds they lay dead at Uric’s feet and he settled gently to the ground.
Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) Page 27
