Myrkron (Volume Two of The Chronicles of the Myrkron)

by Woods, Timothy

  Quin ran for nearly five minutes, dodging between trees, ducking low hanging branches and leaping over fallen logs. Rein kept him in sight, but was unable to catch up with him until he came to a stop at an oak tree and knelt down. Rein could see Rena sitting with her back to the tree, her right arm cradled over a large wound in her abdomen. Judging by the look of the wound now, given the rate of healing his people were capable of, Rein deduced it must have been a very terrible wound indeed.

  Rein knelt down on the opposite side of Rena from Quin and gently moved Rena’s arm from the wound. It had been very deep and ran almost completely across her stomach. “This should have been tended immediately, Rena,” Prince Rein said with a scowl, gently chiding her.

  “It was tended, by me. There were more important matters to be addressed at the time,” Rena replied, smiling up at Quin. “Did you get him, my love?” Rena asked Quin as she ran the finger of her left hand over the scars on Quin’s face.

  “Aye. That beast will harm no one ever again,” Quin replied taking her hand from his face and holding it in his own.

  “Good. Now help me up.”

  “Not just yet, Rena. You still have some healing to do before you can travel,” Rein said shaking his head. “With a wound like that, I am surprised you are still to be counted among the living. Stay here. I will see if I can find some herbs to help speed the process,” Rein told her, pushing her shoulder back against the tree and handing her the spare robe he had brought along.

  “Is that an order, my Prince?” Rena asked with a smile.

  “No. It is a Royal edict,” Rein replied smiling down at both of them as he rose. “And Quin, make sure she follows it.”

  “Aye, my Prince,” Quin replied never taking his eyes from Rena’s face.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Avari Lord was seated at a large, dark stained oak desk within the library of his home. A small black, leather bound book lie open before him. He was reading to pass the time.

  Though it was early morning outside, the room was lit by a hand sized glass globe held in an ornately carved wooden stand. It had been fashioned to look like a wolf's head thrown back as if howling, holding the globe within its mouth. The intricate design had obviously been carved by a master as the detail was exacting, right down to the wisps of fur at the ears.

  The desk held only one other item, a large glass box containing what looked to be a ring of wickedly sharp thorns.

  Time passed very slowly when you had eternity to contemplate and even more slowly when you had pressing things to do and were forced to wait. As Micah was turning another page, his hand froze and his head snapped up. His eyes seemed to be focused on something far away. Micah’s hands clenched into fists and he threw his head back. A roar so loud issued from his throat that it shook the desk and caused the light to waver as its holder danced on the surface. The roar went on for an inhumanly long time. Then Micah’s head came down, his chin touching his chest. He could hear, off in the distance, the grove wolves answering his lament with howls of their own.

  Micah stayed in that position for a few minutes until he could get his emotions under control. He had felt the strike that pierced Branik’s chest. He had heard him exhale his last breath. Shane’s line had come to an end, and Micah could do nothing about it. He cursed the sun, as he had done countless times in the past. Then he cursed himself for never being able to find a way around his weakness.

  Micah turned his mind to Michael. If Branik was dead then Micah should be able to see the details in Michael’s mind. He saw the scene as it unfolded. He felt Michael’s stunning shock and disbelief as Branik was struck by the Garolith. Micah vowed that the monster would pay for what it had done. Michael was now in the rock garden of Kantwell kneeling beside Branik’s prone form. He watched Michael heal the horrid wound, saw Branik breathe his last breath, and then Michael was performing CPR. He saw everything up until Michael’s mind went blank as Branik’s fist connected with his jaw.

  Branik was alive. The relief Micah felt was overwhelming, though he was concerned for Michael. That blow from Branik’s fist was delivered with blinding speed and the full force of his strength. There was nothing Micah could do at the moment. He knew Michael was alive and in good hands; and now that he knew Branik was alive, he felt almost giddy. Michael had told him he could heal, but Micah had never truly believed it possible until now.

  Micah closed his eyes and turned inward. He saw the nine black doors, all closed. He knew the tenth was there, but he could not see it. It was only visible to him when the other nine were open. Ianua Vita, the Door of Life; the power to heal. How many outcomes might have been different had he been able to open this door.

  Micah took out the little silver flask and looked at it. The frost covering its surface concealed the intricate markings engraved into it, but Micah knew them by heart. He remembered vividly the day he finished it. It had been his wedding gift to Dainy, his wife. He had worked for weeks on it, only allowing the metal smith of their village to give him verbal instructions. Wedding gifts among his people had to be crafted solely by the bride and groom’s own hand. Micah had labored over its crafting having to start over many times before he got it right. He had then engraved Dainy’s name into it and ‘Eternal Love’. Looking back on it, he was again struck by the prophetic irony of those simple words. Dainy and all of his people had long ago passed beyond dust, yet Micah and the little silver flask remained, as did his love for Dainy. He had long ago imbued the flask with magic to keep its contents cold and potent. Micah carried it always with him out of need and out of remembrance.

  “Eternal love, indeed,” Micah smiled, but his smiled faded as his mind turned to the doors of magic once again. “I wonder if I could still open that door. The others open for me when I drink the blood of life, perhaps during those times it could be opened.” Micah considered experimenting with that very notion then sighed and put the flask back in his pocket. The blood was too precious to waste on idle speculation and experimentation. He returned his attention to the text before him, spinning the book back into a reading position from where it had settled after his outburst. He had many hours to go before the sun would set, and he needed to focus on the problems of the moment.

  As he continued reading, he heard a scratch at his front door followed by a low pitched whining. Rising, Micah went to the front door, knowing it would be Roam or Jewl or possibly both. They would be concerned about him. He was as much a part of their pack as the pups they were raising. He could not recall the number of generations of Grove Wolves he had seen come and go, but he had been there to see almost every litter since he had discovered them. Every pup he had greeted in wolf form before they were a week old. Micah had played their games and run in hunts with them. They were as much family to him as was Joshua.

  Micah opened the door to see Roam lying on his porch and down the steps. The massive nose was resting on his paws almost touching the door. Upon seeing Micah, Roam's head came up and cocked to the side.

  Micah smiled at him and patted his head then began scratching the huge jowls. “I am sorry I disturbed you my loyal friend,” Micah spoke out loud out of habit, but it was with his mind that he communicated with Roam. Though highly intelligent, they did not understand his language when he was in human form. “Another friend of mine was in grave danger, and it upset me. Know that he is well and that I am no longer saddened.”

  Roam’s eyes brightened and he rose to a sitting position, his head almost touching the roof of the little porch. He began panting and Micah could detect the scent of blood on his breath.

  “I am sorry I pulled you away from your meal. I am fine now. Return to Jewl and your pups and know that I am grateful that you came,” Micah told him placing his hand on Roams barrel chest. “I will come and visit as soon as I can.”

  Roam lowered his head and butted it gently against Micah’s then turned and bounded off into the forest.

  “Would that everyone would show such concern then maybe this war
would not be happening.” Micah sighed and returned to the library and his reading.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mieka teleported herself back to Gratton, her mind still in turmoil. She walked to Mortow’s study and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she turned and walked down the stairs to the main library. It was empty. Frowning, she teleported herself to the war room. It was also empty. Mortow must have started his march. That he did not contact her, worried her, but then, with the doubts she was having, maybe that was for the best. If Mortow sensed those doubts, her life would be in danger.

  As long as she could remember, Mieka had followed Mortow. When she came to Kantwell as a child, she had been both excited and terrified. The prospect of studying magic under the wizards there had been the only thing that had kept her feet moving forward when her parents had taken her to the great castle.

  A much younger and far less gray Merric had greeted her at the door of Kantwell, with a very handsome and physically large boy at his side. Mieka had barely turned eleven, and Mortow was thirteen at the time. Even at that age, she had been drawn to him. She remembered his smile and the pale blue eyes; eyes that now call up images of ice instead of a summer sky; and she couldn’t recall the last time she had seen Mortow smile with anything other than malice.

  Mortow took her under his wing immediately and this seemed to please Merric greatly. He was exceedingly proud of his son and could see the teacher in himself reflected in these actions. Already a fourth key sorcerer, Mortow had treated her like a little sister, instructing her even in their off time. Mieka found that Mortow’s passion for magic inspired a like passion in her as well. They were inseparable for years. Mieka was not quite sure when it happened, but one day she no longer saw him as a brother. Mortow had transformed in her eyes into an incredibly handsome and powerful man. She realized now what she had not known then; she had fallen in love with him.

  She knew it now only because of her feelings for Michael. How unlike those two were. Mortow was confident to the point of arrogance in his power and ideals, powerful in both magic and in body. Michael was scared of what his power could do. He had killed with it and had been almost physically ill with guilt. Though Michael’s time spent with the Avari had honed and chiseled his body, he was nowhere close to Mortow’s match in size or strength.

  Mieka had followed Mortow’s instruction and brought Michael to him. How she could have ever thought that Michael would be swayed to joining them was beyond her comprehension now. She felt alone for the first time in her life. Michael would have told Merric about what had transpired, and Merric would have modified the shield around Kantwell to prevent her from entering. She could never go back now, and Mortow’s interest in her was purely for what power she could bring to bear in accomplishing his goals.

  “No use in worrying over things I cannot change now,” Mieka sighed and transported herself to the stables. She saddled her horse, a white mare with a dark wedge on its face that started in a point just below her eyes and fanned out as it descended to her nose. She scratched lightly on the horse’s jaw. The horse’s eye turned to regard her and she thought she saw sadness reflected in its depths. Mieka shook her head and chided herself for being foolish. She mounted and spoke the words of transport that would take her to one of the designated meeting spots along the army’s route.

  “Once Kantwell and its weakling magi are destroyed, we will have to find a way of removing the Nine Key,” a hissing voice said in the darkness.

  “Yes, the Nine Key must fall before we can complete our vengeance,” a similar voice answered.

  Six of the Garoliths slithered along at great speed in caverns that ran through the mountain range surrounding Gratton. The caverns were deep and pitch black, but neither of these facts concerned them. Darkness was a soothing balm and their burning red eyes were not hindered by it.

  “With all of the magi out of the way, we can resume our hunts. We will be able to feed once again. I can still taste the fear in the air surrounding the Nine Key’s little magi,” laughed one of the hissing voices and the rest joined it.

  “For now, we follow the Nine Key’s plan, but not too closely. When he and his army are sufficiently weakened by his war, then we strike.”

  “Yes, then we strike,” the others answered.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Attis and Trask were nearly returned to their allies in The Slot after having escorted the dwarven women and children to Middle Watch. It had taken much longer than either of them had anticipated even with both carrying the children. The women were exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and had to stop to rest after only a few hours.

  Both Avari were loath to lose the time; however, it was clear the women could go no further this day. Attis built a small fire for the children as the air had a chill bite to it this far north.

  “Rest, now. We still have a long way to travel. My brother and I will keep watch. Nothing will be allowed to harm you,” Attis assured them.

  As Attis spoke with the dwarves, Trask walked briskly off to the east. He would scout a few miles out, then swing south and west, then rejoin them. Trask’s departure had clearly indicated that he would take first watch, so Attis watched the women curl up with the children around the fire. All of them were asleep in minutes. The youngest had not even awakened when Trask gently pried her little hand from his collar to hand her to Syanne. The boy, Alin, was curled up in a ball by Vandee, the bolt Trask had given him still clenched in his fist.

  Attis scanned the horizon all around them then sat a small distance from the fire, facing away from its light. He crossed his legs and closed his eyes relying on his sense of hearing to warn him if anyone or anything came near.

  It had taken three days to reach Middle Watch and when they arrived, they learned that Axethane Ralk, Kale and his unit, and a small number of Forgers, had left to join the King’s army in The Slot. Attis and Trask intended to depart immediately to resume their search, but a gaunt looking Captain Gant stopped them.

  “I want to thank you both for bringing back those survivors, but I must ask you now to abandon the search,” Gant had told them.

  Trask immediately started to protest, but Gant held up his hand in forbearance. “I know how you feel, Avari. I wanted to search as well, but it has been given me to know that there are no more survivors. Those you have returned to us were the last,” Gant told him.

  “How can you know this?” Trask asked heatedly.

  “Because I am now Axethane, and the Axethane that resides within me has told me as much. The others have gone to join the King’s army. You will be needed there as well. Mortow has begun his march, and what I have seen makes me shiver. Mortow has been joined by hideous monstrosities. They are called Garoliths. You will know them when you see them.”

  Axethane Gant’s eyes went out of focus and his voice took on a slightly higher pitch. “’Ware the Garoliths, Avari. Your swords cannot harm them.”

  Axethane Gant’s eyes locked on Trask. “You must carry this warning to your kind, else many will be lost.”

  Trask started to say something then snapped his mouth shut and simply nodded. “We are grateful for this warning, but if our swords cannot harm them then how are we to fight them?”

  “It will fall to others to deal with them. Concentrate on other foes, but do not engage the Garoliths,” Axethane Gant said, and then had turned and entered Middle Watch.

  They were only about an hour from The Slot when they caught sight of a small group of weres moving silently ahead of them.

  Trask elbowed Attis and pointed with his chin toward the group. “Not the enemy I’m looking for, but it’s a start,” Trask whispered.

  Attis nodded and silently drew his blades a fraction of a second behind Trask. They both broke into a run, arrowing straight at the weres. It was a group of about twenty, a scouting party. The speed of the Avari closed the distance quickly. The rear guard never knew what hit them. Three wolves and a hunting cat went down instantly. A
s the group of weres scattered in initial fright, Trask and Attis ran through them, and then turned to face their foes. Two wolves broke into a run headed out into Glimmen Marsh. The rest sent up howls, growls and roars then charged the two Avari.

  Attis and Trask moved with precision, their blades bringing death to all within reach. Trask had dispatched a giant panther and turning, sliced the head from a leaping wolf, just as a large black bear landed a vicious blow across his back, shredding his tunic and knocking him from his feet.

  Seeing his brother go down, Attis’ attacks became savage, and he adjusted his line of attack to try to reach Trask. Attis saw the bear lunge with its full weight onto its front paws, but he could not see whether or not it had landed on Trask. Too many Weres separated them. Attis’ blades created a net of steel surrounding him that none of the enemy could penetrate. Limbs and heads spun off in ropey, spiraling sprays of blood all around him.

  Attis caught sight of the bear rearing up once more, this time with Trask on its back, one hand grasping a thick knot of fur at the bear's neck. A shower of blood erupted from beneath the bears chin and Trask flipped backward still clutching the severed head in his left fist. Landing on his feet, Trask hurled the head at a charging wolf then switched instantly to a two handed grip on his sword. The wolf was knocked from its feet by the impact of the severed head, but was replaced by another.

  Seeing his brother up and fighting once again, Attis altered his line of attack once again to give Trask plenty of room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trask split the head of the wolf with a powerful overhead strike then roll forward and back to his feet. He had recovered his discarded sword and was putting it to use once again.