Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Map
A Word About Cystic Fibrosis
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter FIve
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thriteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
More From Me
About the Author
Contact
The Chronicles of Llars
Volume Four:
The Tomb of
the Dark Paladin
By Tom Bielawski
The Tomb of the Dark Paladin
Tom Bielawski
Copyright Tom Bielawski 2012
Published by Tom Bielawski Publishing
Cover art by Ronnel D Porter
Editing by RW Jensen
A word about Cystic Fibrosis (CF)
I am a CF dad; someone I love needs a cure.
CF is a genetic, inherited, disease that affects the lungs and digestive systems of about 30,000 children and adults in the United States, and 70,000 worldwide. A defective gene and its protein product cause the body to produce unusually thick and sticky mucus that clogs the lungs and leads to life-threatening lung infections, and obstructs the pancreas stopping the natural enzymes from helping the body break down and absorb food.
This disease used to be a death sentence. Now, more and more people with CF are living into their 30's, 40's and beyond. And that is thanks in large part to organizations like Cystic Fibrosis Foundation (CFF) and others who have supported and driven the research community with awesome fundraisers, studies, and media attention.
Please support CFF.org, Cystic Life (cysticlife.org), Boomer Esiason Foundation (esiason.org), or any other great organization that is helping to fight this terrible disease.
Thank you,
Tom Bielawski
C H A P T E R
O N E
~
Frigid polar air whipped into a frenzy, blowing snow and chunks of ice through the air as it whistled along the mountain ridges of Erestonin. The skies were dark with the steel gray of snow clouds; even the dark and ominous Northern Borealis was not to be seen that night. The snow was falling nearly horizontally, a condition called a whiteout by most mortals. But the man standing there was not like any mortal who walked on Llars. This man was unaffected by cold or driving wind or obstructions to mortal sight. He stood through it all, rigid as a statute, with naught but his golden eyes taking in the landscape.
Satisfied that no further attacks would come, Prince Mycal finally stepped through the Pathway Arch that he and Crystoph had so recently regenerated. To any mortal daring to walk the pathways where only the immortal Cjii go freely, the sensations of the powers of the Tides and the spirits of the damned as they pulled the mortal mind to its limits, would cause most to become incurably insane. For Prince Mycal, the journey through the pathways between arches, those pathways that connected his world to the world of Llars, was short. In a blink, he found himself stepping through the portal opening and into the realm of Zuhr's Cjii. He turned and harnessed the power of the Tides, then sealed the arch behind him with a spell so powerful even another Cjii would not be able to open it without his consent. The great warrior-prince leaned against a cool marble support pillar gazing at the massive arch, allowing himself a moment to regain his composure. After a moment, he turned away from the arch, ready to trudge up the steps that led from the secret chamber to the realm above where his troops waited.
Crystoph stood at the foot of the stairs, hands on his hips, his chiseled face weary and somber. "The cost of the success of this mission was too high."
Mycal said nothing and Crystoph thought he saw the older Cjii's eyes begin to wrinkle. It was rare for Mycal to show any hint of emotion to anyone. To Crystoph, Mycal's slight loss of control underscored the importance of the situation they found themselves in.
"It was necessary."
"We forced Tartarus and Baelor to show us what they are capable of on Llars, but will that end justify the means?"
"It will," said the Archangel simply. "The diversion worked." They continued discussing a tactic particularly out of character for the prince that the Legion performed under the diversion provided by Mycal's attack. They had infiltrated Hades and kidnapped one of Umber's Dark Disciples.
"What have we set in motion, Mycal?"
The Prince of Angels could not help but notice the tone in his lieutenant's voice. "We have done what was necessary, and nothing more. It is the will of the Great Father and we must obey."
Crystoph nodded in irritation, he already knew that. Mycal was always one to hold his information close. "What is going to become of Llars?"
"I do not know, Crystoph. A great war is inevitable, and it seems that the field of battle will be there."
"There has not been a war between the Cjii in millennia; and the last time we fought our brethren--"
"It cannot be helped!" barked the elder Cjii. "Zuhr has spoken. The First Six will not be allowed to continue to misrepresent themselves as gods. The mortals will be drawn into this fight."
"There is another way, Mycal."
Mycal met the gaze of his subordinate with a steely gaze of his own. He knew what Crystoph was suggesting. "Even that great hope is beyond us, brother. If the mortal in fact accomplishes that highly improbable feat, I fear it would only postpone the inevitable chaos to come. Our best remedy, however undesirable, must be acted upon at once."
"The stones have been found, Mycal," said Crystoph urgently. "There is a chance!"
Mycal placed his hand on Crystoph's shoulder and the two began to walk up the elegant marble stairs together. "If the mortal somehow learns what it is that he holds, and if he does not break under the constant strain of the Shadow, perhaps then we may hope. Until then, Crystoph, we prepare for war."
The two immortals reached the top of the stairs and emerged into the realm that was their home. They basked in the golden warmth that came from everywhere at once, and inhaled deeply of the smells of the forest and the mountains in the warm spring-like air. They were standing in a door situated at the foot of a mountain, a great lake of azure glistened before them. At the edges of this great lake the City of Angels, the home of Zuhr's own Cjii, rose up in golden splendor.
"But we must do something to help him, Mycal!" Crystoph's voice was strained; he desperately wanted to avoid a war that could devastate the home of their beloved mortal races.
"Perhaps," said Mycal, thoughtful. The two Cjii watched as the last of the injured angel soldiers were taken inside the gleaming gates of the City of Angels.
"The covenant has already been broken, Mycal," urged Crystoph. "None of the Cjii are bound by its code anymore."
"I know," replied the elder Cjii with a great sigh. Mycal paused a long moment, his perfect features troubled as he turned to face his trusted lieutenant. "That course of action carries its own risks, brother."
"I am prepared to accept those risks. It is my choice to make and I believe Zuhr would want it to be so."
"It is your choice to make," Mycal agreed somberly. "You have my leave to use the arches; I only hope it is not already too late. Zuhr's blessing upon you, Crystoph."
"And you Mycal," repeated the other as the two embraced.
Mycal turned, walked down the gentle slope toward the city, leaving
Crystoph behind to ponder the wisdom his choice. Crystoph did not ponder long, however. He felt strongly about what he could do to save Llars. Mycal was a general, a true leader who took his role with grave solemnity. Crystoph did not truly think of himself as either. He was a master of the Tides and of the Cjii magic that fed from the Tides, and had taught many Cjii how to use them. He was a scholar, familiar with nearly every second of the history of Llars, and had shared that knowledge with his fellow Cjii. But perhaps more than any of Zuhr's angels, Crystoph felt a special love and responsibility for those who dwelt upon Llars, particularly the Crimson Elves. Over the millennia, when Crystoph felt the need to take mortal form he always chose that of Morgon Fyr, the greatest Fyrbold to walk Llars; a Crimson Elf.
In the span of an eye blink, Crystoph willed the Tides to do his bidding and his appearance changed. Now he stood overlooking his home, the City of Angels, for perhaps the last time, through the dark red eyes of a Crimson Elf. With the flick of a finger, a doorway of pure fire appeared before him, blocking his view of the city below. He stepped into the flames, reveling in the way the Tides flowed through him and luxuriating in the heat of the magical flames. And then he and the flames were gone.
General Medov closed the door to his office and breathed a sigh of relief. What he had done had been terribly dangerous and terribly foolish. A more horrible end than he was capable of imagining would be the consequence of failure; Umber didn't suffer traitors lightly. Medov whispered a word and a tiny ball of flame appeared above his index finger. Then he flicked his finger and the tiny flame darted across the room to the oil lamp on his desk. When the oil lamp was lit, the fireball darted to the hearth and exploded, sending tiny balls of flames racing across the pile of logs like ants until the wood erupted in a great conflagration.
With the room heating nicely, Medov walked to his desk, passing his armor and devices of rank, and sat down. He rubbed an area below his ribcage. Covered by a piece of steel magically grafted to his side, the deep burning was a harsh reminder of the price he paid for his powers. The steel piece in his side came from the blade of a dagger belonging to a long dead, and long forgotten, evil High Elf sorcerer. Medov didn't know the elf's name, and he didn't care, but the ancient sorcerer's spirit made itself known to him from time to time. It was as though the spirit took over his body and Medov was unaware until after the possession had passed. Fortunately, the spirit never did anything untoward during these episodes and seemed to simply enjoy having a physical form for a while. These episodes were his only misgivings about the deal he had made, for the dark powers that the dead sorcerer once wielded were now his. Nevertheless, Medov had sacrificed more than just a portion of his flesh; he had sacrificed his loyalty to his country and his god. When he made his deal with Devoricus, he thought the Cjii would force him to serve Q'raz more boldly, perhaps at the front line of the warrior-god's fighting forces as they raced into glorious battle behind their horrible golden dragons. But such was not to be; the cost of his deal was steeper. Spying in the Palace of Erestonin was his charge, and was no small feat.
Erestonin had been a place of conflict for a long time. Each of the Frost Elf tribes that inhabited the cold world above, and the dark world below, was fiercely territorial and hostile toward the others. A few times in history, the militant tribes of Erestonin had united under a single leader and had come down from the glaciers to wreak havoc on the world of men. It was only within the past few years that the tribes had become united under a single leader, only this leader was not an elf. This leader was none other than the Raven Queen, an ancient disciple of Umber's who was, ironically, human. Medov had witnessed her powers and found them to be terrifying even to him. And one of those powers was her ability to wake the sleeping guardians.
The palace had been inhabited by rulers of various tribes, but it had not been the symbol of a united Erestonin for centuries. The Raven Queen had taken over the palace and brought in powerful warlords from all the tribes to be her advisers and generals. The Frost Elves were united again and the glory of war was not far off; they were planning to come down from the glacier very soon and wage war. Medov suspected that Alfheym, the homeland of the Crimson Elves, would interfere. However, that was a matter for another time as it seemed that his own position in the coming war had changed.
A scroll case of solid blue topaz inlaid with silver and gold seemed to stare at him from the surface of his desk. It bore the seal of the Raven Queen and could only mean one thing. The ancient runic High Elvish script, still used by the ruling classes of Erestonin, crawled across the surface of the tube in the flickering light like a live thing. He was the general of the First Scouts, the most feared and respected unit of his tribe's fighting forces. Among the fighting forces of the rest of Llars, the Frost Elves were feared above even the infamous Hurkin Horde.
He opened the scroll case and unfurled the parchment within. As he suspected: new orders. General Medov was to report to Shalthazar's fortress, where the foreign elf who recently arrived at the head of a mighty host from a far off continent had established his headquarters. He had heard much about this elf and knew that Shalthazar was also a mighty wizard at the head of an order of his own creation. He seemed to have been wildly successful in his conquest of the Northern Continent. But now, it seemed, the foreigner's usefulness had run its course. Odd, considering how much he had accomplished in so short a time. He wondered if Shalthazar would suspect the truth of Medov's assignment and if the foreigner would be prepared.
The timing of Medov's change of orders was serendipitous. Having made his sacrifice for power at Umber's expense, the old assassin expected to find a powerful ally in this foreigner. He had no informants within the elf's circle of confidence; there was no reason to believe that the elf was in any way disloyal. Yet, many men had been known to change sides when the cold steel of a dagger was pressed to their necks. It was something he might be able to use should Umber learn of the general's betrayal. This was a quandary that he must find a way out of. Disobedience to Umber would certainly earn him a death sentence, and death would not save him from eternal suffering at the hands of one such as Coronus, the master of death magic. And Devoricus would be furious at this turn of events too, the Cjii desperately wanted to maintain the general's vital connection to the palace and the Raven Queen's ear. Medov knew that Devoricus himself had recently abandoned Hybrand and would probably find any intelligence garnered there to be of little import. He hoped that the Cjii would leave him alone now but it was more likely that the Cjii would find some other way in which to force the general to risk his life and, in all likelihood, his afterlife in service of Q'raz.
Medov shoved the scroll back into the case and smiled. Even considering this new change of circumstance, the power he now wielded was worth sacrificing his loyalty to Umber. The dark god had offered him nothing in his long years of service but indifference and spite. He longed for the chance to see his enemies running before him, terror driving them to their deaths at the end of his Elvish blade, his hand wreathed in darkfire as he ripped a person's very soul from their body.
A pair of Keneerie slaves arrived at his door to begin preparing his effects for the journey. The slaves that toiled for the Frost Elves were controlled by skillful Elvish magic and would ensure that the general's effects were properly transported to his new duty station. The Frost Elf masters did not tolerate anything but utter devotion and compliance from their slaves.
General Medov donned his armor, gathered his weapons, and left his office. The tall Frost Elf wasted no time on farewells, marching straight to his departure point. Frost Elves were not known for their compassion, neither were they given to shows of affection. Their lives were sterile, their living conditions generally as austere as the harsh northern tundra in which they resided. Frost Elves were raised from birth to be cold, calculating, self-serving.
Medov thought about the sleeping guardians and smirked. To most Frost Elves these creatures were far from being guardians. They were the harbinger
s of war, and war was something the Frost Elves were very, very, good at. And so it was that Medov now stood atop the highest tower in the palace awaiting one of those very guardians. The general waited in the harsh wind atop a large circular platform nearly fifty feet in diameter for the guardian to arrive.
A particularly strong gust battered the tower and sent a biting breeze surging up the tower wall where it crashed into the general with icy fists. Thump thump. Barely, over the sound of the incessant wind, he heard it. Again, thump thump. Soon the noise became louder, and louder still. A form began to take shape in the cold air and a pair of large, evil, blue eyes appeared. Then the rest of the body took shape and soon an inexplicable terror stirred within the Frost Elf's stomach. Even the battle-hardened Frost Elves were not completely immune to the terror that these beasts could instill in the mortal races. Finally, the huge predatory eyes took note of Medov as the creature settled on the ground next to him. In a flash of blue light, the creature changed into the image of a Frost Elf in light blue robes.
"Are you ready to leave, General?" came the steely voice, dripping with condescension.
Medov nodded, unsettled by the hungry eyes of the shape shifter before him. He was indeed ready to be gone from Erestonin, but he was not certain he could protect himself from the great beast's hunger. He wondered if that had been his deceitful masters' plan all along.
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