Lucius sped his pace, nearly matching the swiftness of Siegfried. "We are nearly there," he shouted excitably.
"Yes, but ascending that hill may prove treacherous. We shall be easy prey to the Protector's arrows," Siegfried said.
Lucius wanted to glance back and see how close the Protectors were, but he decided running as fast as his tired body could take him would be a better option.
The forest finally came to an end and poured into a small meadow before the hill. Wild daisies and corn poppies adorned the grass of the meadow—a tranquil scene immediately disturbed as they raced toward the hill. The incline of the hill was steeper than Lucius thought, which caused him to slow his pace as he ascended to the top. Siegfried climbed the hill without losing a step. Lucius clambered up to meet him, breathing hard and completely exhausted when he finished his ascent.
While he stood hunched over, attempting to catch his breath, he gazed at the splendor of the Marble Gate. They were around twelve feet in height and equally wide. Leaf shapes and elven runes were carved on the Gate's doors along with the crest of Evingrad, which was divided symmetrically where the Gate split in two. Two spherical posts rested on the top of the Gate where each side joined with the marble wall.
As he stood examining the structure, Siegfried was crouched at the foot of the wall, fiddling with something. Lucius limped beside him and saw he was tying a noose on a silver rope. When the knot was finished, Siegfried quickly lassoed the noose over one of the posts. He tugged on the rope to make sure it was secure.
"We must make haste. Climb the rope, brother," Siegfried cried.
Lucius didn't hesitate. He grabbed the rope and began to hoist himself onto the stone door. But he easily lost his footing on the smooth marble and struggled to climb up.
"Is there no way to open this gate?" He strained as he ascended and slid again.
"No. The Protectors are the only elves who know the words that will open the doors," Siegfried replied, exchanging glances between Lucius and the edge of the forest.
Suddenly, an arrow smacked the wall beside them and startled Lucius. Siegfried instinctively swirled around, taking aim with his bow at the direction where the arrow had flown from. At the foot of the hill, they both saw Kiret. His bow was fixed on Lucius, and his forehead creased as he stared at them.
"Drop your bow, Siegfried. I do not wish to harm you," he said, unflinching.
Siegfried hesitated for a moment, but then lowered his bow and let it fall on the ground. Lucius felt a nauseating feeling building up in the pit of his stomach. Their journey had come to its end prematurely. Kiret slowly walked up the hill, keeping his bow level with his target. The shorter elf reached the top and stared at them with fierce eyes. No sympathy seemed to dwell in his glaring blue eyes. Lucius felt uneasy from the awkward silence between them, and the fact no other Protectors had come out of the forest worried him. It was unlikely Kiret had easily forgotten the humiliation Lucius brought upon him or the untimely defeat at Siegfried's hand during the tournament. Will he kill us here on this lonely hill? The sound of a horn in the distance broke the silence.
"The others are coming for you," Kiret spoke softly. "There will be no escaping that way."
Lucius looked at the rope and the manner of escape he was referring to. He was right. There would be no escape.
"But there is another way." Kiret uttered some words in the elven tongue, and the Marble Gate creaked to life. The doors slowly opened toward them and revealed golden plains stretching for miles.
"Why are you doing this?" Siegfried asked, knowing the punishment Kiret would suffer for his insubordination.
Kiret lowered his bow, suddenly looking tired and old. "I believe in the prophecy. I always have. Nineteen winters have passed since I found you in the shadow of this gate and took you in. And now, here you are whence you came. I am ready to let you go."
Lucius looked at the Protector with newfound respect. He had completely misjudged Kiret. This honor bestowed on them was beyond anything he would have expected from the elf warrior. "Thank you," he simply replied.
Kiret bowed his head. The horn sounded again, closer this time, "You must go now. The doors must be shut before the others arrive. Run!"
Siegfried quickly grabbed his bow and summoned the silver rope. The noose loosened, and it dropped in Lucius' hands. He ran with Siegfried to the other side of the great wall of Verdania, but not before looking back. Kiret stood visibly in the opening as the Marble Gate began to shut, lifting an open palm to wish them farewell. With a low boom, the doors shut, and for the first time in his life, Lucius was outside of the realm of the D'aryan elves.
SIX
Dragon Slayers
Lord Memnon, dressed in his ceremonial garb, stood at the altar of his ancestor, Scipio, speaking in shak'teph—the dark tongue of the necromancers and sorcerers of the Draknoir. Each word hissed from his forked tongue and echoed in the hall situated at the heart of the Nasgothar fortress. The interior of the sorcerer's hall resembled the inside of a cavern; it was dark and rocky protrusions filled the floor, walls, and ceiling. At the center of the room there was an octagonal table where a hand-drawn map of Azuleah lay. On the opposite wall to the hall's entrance stood a brazier where Memnon knelt with his arms outspread. He had been meditating continually the past few days, trying to summon the spirit of his ancestor in order to master the black arts as he once did. His concentration was interrupted when the chamber doors swung open.
Genghis Ikben, his trusted general, entered the sacred altar with a gallant stride that displayed his willful haughtiness. Memnon turned to face him, noting his appearance. His face was a dark green hue with scales covering his entire body. Plated armor with sharp spikes protruding from the shoulders shielded his torso and thick leather greaves covered his legs along with ironclad boots. The warrior's eyes were yellow with dark pupils at the center. Two rows of half-inch horns ran from his forehead to the back of his head—a sign of high rank among Draknoir warriors. Memnon didn't have the rows of horns; instead, he bore two long horns just below his lower lip that curled inward beneath his chin. The horns, along with his darker scale pigment, were the mark of a great sorcerer.
"My liege, I have tidings from our encampment at the mouth of the Feilon River," Genghis hissed.
He raised a brow, which was nothing more than a few tiny spikes above his eye. "Tidings? Well, I would very much like to hear it."
"My lord—"
"After you've told me why you chose to enter this domain so brusquely," Memnon interrupted with pleasure.
Genghis frowned, trying to find the right words. "The tidings were of great importance—"
"Wrong! It matters not to me if this fortress is being attacked by Dermont's entire army. You will not enter this sacred lair unless I order you to. Is that understood, Genghis?" Memnon chided, his eyes piercing into the younger Draknoir.
"Yes, my lord. Forgive me." Genghis bowed his head.
Memnon lifted his chin in victory. "Good. Now, tell me your tidings."
"Three nights past, a scout from our encampment near the bank of the Feilon spotted a battalion of Aldronians marching through Ithileo Forest. There were fifteen men, all on horseback and carrying the flag of the Drachengarde." Genghis bared his teeth as he spoke the name.
"Dragon slayers?" Memnon asked, gritting his sharp teeth. "Have they camped in Ithileo?"
"We believe so, my lord. There is no doubt that they are headed to Ghadarya by following the Dulan River northward," Genghis said confidently.
It seemed foolish for the Slayers to be traveling from the eastern side of the Dulan. Something was amiss.
"How many men did you say were in this battalion?"
"Fifteen, sir."
"That is not nearly enough men to cross into Ghadarya Vale and overtake the mighty aeries of the dragons." Memnon clasped his hands behind his back and paced the dark chamber, trying to make sense of the humans' tactics.
"The Drachengarde were formidable adversaries
, my lord. One of those dragon slayers is as formidable as five Aldronian soldiers, or so it is said," Genghis suggested.
The suggestion fell on deaf ears. Memnon glared at his subordinate as if he had spoken blasphemy.
"The Drachengarde may be formidable, but they are not so foolish to believe that they will be victorious over a flight of dragons with so few in their ranks. No, Genghis. There is more to this than we are seeing."
"What does my lord suggest?"
"Monitor the dragon slayers. Have your scouts track their every move along Ithileo. If they are indeed headed to Ghadarya, attack them before they reach the Dulan. Leave none alive, if that is their plan."
"And if their intentions are not set for Ghadarya?" Genghis' eyes shone like fiery gems, the hunger for blood and war was saturated in them. It pleased Memnon.
"Report their movements to me, General. That is your order for now, if they stray from the Dulan." He turned his back on him. "Shut the doors on your way out."
"My lord," Genghis bowed his head and walked out of the sacred place, a resounding boom accompanying his exit.
What are you plotting Dermont? He sought the answer from his god, Nergoth. Memnon stood at the foot of the brazier, raising his arms before the idol of Nergoth. He dispelled all thought from his mind and began speaking in shak’teph again. Nergoth stood above him, carved from the black, stone wall behind the altar. His eyes were rubies, and his face was contorted in a snarl with long fangs resembling stalactites. Lord Memnon knelt before the ghastly effigy, entranced in the darkness. Images began to appear within his mind.
He saw the edge of the forest of Ithileo shaded in gray, lifeless colors. The members of the Drachengarde lay in the underbrush, resting from their long journey through the woods. Some slept, while a few tended the dying embers of the fire they encircled. His sight shifted from the encampment. Within the forest, there was a separate encampment. Nearly two hundred Aldronian soldiers hid in the forest beneath a blanket of grass and leaves. They held their swords and bows at the ready, watching the Slayers with sleepless eyes.
An ambush! How clever, Dermont. The moment I send the Draknoir scourge, you would make quick work of them.
Memnon opened his eyes, pleased by the revelation from Nergoth. He looked down and saw the bloodstained brazier upon the altar. A gift was in order for this generous foresight. He pulled out a hooked dagger tucked under the sash of his garb. And after rolling up his sleeve, he made a deep gash in his reptilian skin. Violet blood oozed from the cut as he positioned it above the brazier. The sharp pain from squeezing his arm so the blood could pour onto the brazier gave him an unnatural pleasure.
When the brazier was half-filled with the dark blood, Memnon sucked his wound until the blood stopped flowing out. He uttered a few words in shak’teph and suddenly the brazier lit with a roaring fire. Flames danced just below Nergoth's chin, casting an eerie shadow on the idol's face. A foul smell of burnt blood filled the chamber. Memnon sniffed the pagan incense with delight.
"Let the blood of your subjects burn as it has on this altar, Dermont, for invading my lands and opposing Nergoth's power," he uttered to himself. Joppa's end was nigh, and soon the ashes of the Black Dragon would be rekindled to a great blue flame. Soon his bloodlust would be satiated, and darkness would sweep the land beneath Nergoth's black wings.
Crickets chirped all around the outskirts of Ithileo forest and created a soothing melody that tempted Silas to fall into a deep, peaceful slumber, but he forced himself to stay awake. The success of their mission was at stake. For days they had been encamped in the wilderness, waiting for a Draknoir raid. He had seen the Draknoir scouts in the hills and knew an attack was imminent. The other Slayers had seen them too. Asher was the first to spot a speck of movement on the bluffs just below the Onyx Mountains and anxiously reported it to him. Perhaps they were mobilizing an attack from Nasgothar, which could take days or even weeks. Nonetheless, something was amiss. The Draknoir were bloodthirsty fiends who did not hesitate in hurling a siege on their enemies. Could they have seen the king's army in the forest? It was too great a distance from the bluffs to Ithileo for a scout to catch sight of the army, especially hidden as they were. Maybe he was thinking about it too much, but it continued to add to his uneasiness.
The night air was arid, and a slight chill in the breeze caused him to shiver. He unfolded the blanket in front of him and wrapped it tightly around his shoulders. He pulled out a gold ring attached to a silver necklace beneath his armor and turned it many times between his fingers. It was a comforting habit he often succumbed to when worry gnawed at him. The ring belonged to his mother, but he forced himself not to think of her. She would be unhappy to know her son lacked courage. Silas knew he had to be brave.
The loud snoring and shuffling bodies around the camp interrupted his thoughts, and he quickly tucked the ring back inside his chainmail shirt. Moonlight shone on the camp like a bright torch revealing their positions. They were naked out here in the wilderness. Silas stood up and threw another log in the fire. He peered into the dark gloom of the forest. Somewhere inside the Aldronian, warriors watched the Drachengarde in seclusion. Their protection did not comfort him. He looked eastward, toward the black bluffs at the foot of the Onyx Mountains. There was not the slightest movement, save the swaying branches of the fir trees at the edge of the camp.
Silas, you worrisome fool.
He sighed and lay down beside the fire. The slow crackling of the flames put his mind at ease while he stared at the stars above. Their glimmering light caused his eyelids to droop. An owl hooted from within the forest, and he quickly sat up, gripping the hilt of his sword. He cursed under his breath and lay down again. Something else stirred in the forest, but he ignored it and set his mind on his sleep. Eventually, darkness overtook him, and he drifted into disturbing dreams of swords clashing upon shields.
A loud horn blast sounded in the camp, and Silas awoke from his slumber. The men all around him stood up and unsheathed their swords. He looked toward the edge of the forest and saw them. Ranks of Draknoir poured out from within the dark forest. They carried serrated blades and wooden shields with the insignia of Nasgothar—a black face with jagged teeth and crimson eyes—seared on the surface. Their blades were wet with blood, and their yellow eyes glowed in the darkness.
Silas rose to his feet and picked up his broadsword from the ground. It was longer than most swords and made from efydd, ideal for cutting through the thick scales of dragons. He unsheathed the sword from its scabbard and joined his fellow Drachengarde. At his command, the men formed a defensive line to meet the first wave of Draknoir invading the camp.
"At the ready," he yelled. The Slayers took their battle stances and held up their shields. They were all superior swordsmen, more strenuously trained than any Aldronian soldier. But the upper hand belonged to the Draknoir, whose numbers were staggering.
The first wave hit them hard. Silas and his second-in-command, Asher, fought beside each other, fatally slashing many of the ungodly beasts. Asher, an older man with a graying beard and steel blue eyes, wielded his sword with ferocious vigor. Two Draknoir warriors attacked him simultaneously from his right and left. He blocked the right one's sword and stabbed the left one in the neck before the Draknoir warrior could strike. Silas then beheaded the creature on his left with a swift swing of his sword. More Draknoir approached them, but they quickly disposed of them in minutes. The Drachengarde survived the first wave without any casualties But as Silas looked toward the forest, he saw dozens of Draknoir assembling and preparing to attack them. He looked all around, desperately searching for the blue and white colors of the Aldronian army's uniforms. But he only saw the scruffy, worn tunics and breastplates of the fourteen Drachengarde around him. He feared the worst, either the Aldronian soldiers had not heard the sound of their horns or they had been wiped out by a Draknoir ambush. The bloodstained swords of the evil minions of Nasgothar a few yards away confirmed the latter.
The Draknoir char
ged toward them, and in seconds an eruption of clashing steel was heard throughout Ithileo. Silas and his men were surrounded by the cruel beasts. Asher stood behind him, flailing his sword in every direction and avoiding every Draknoir attack. Gradually, their defensive line was divided, and Silas could not see any of the Slayers, except for Asher. He fought harder, slicing and tearing each Draknoir fiend close enough to touch. Asher did the same. Their combined ruthlessness held the ground, and the few Draknoir left retreated to the forest. Blood and carcasses lay all around; he felt nauseated at the growing stench. The victory seemed theirs for a moment, until Silas realized he and Asher were the only two Slayers still standing. The other thirteen men had fallen and laid among the dark corpses of their enemies.
Before Silas and Asher could grieve for their fallen friends, a horn was sounded from the edge of the forest. His heart sank at the sight of two ranks of Draknoir archers lined up behind the warriors who had retreated. They had not retreated, as he thought, but had reassembled their line and now had the advantage of long bows.
"My lord, we must flee," Asher wheezed as his chest heaved from exhaustion.
"There is nowhere to run, my friend. This is our last stand," he gripped his broadsword tight and held it up in view of the Draknoir. The sword shone in the moonlight and many of the dark fiends growled at the sight.
The archers fixed their bows on the two warriors and fired. The arrows whizzed in the night toward their targets but did not find their mark as the two veteran warriors dodged and parried them with their swords. Draknoir warriors charged once more toward them and were accompanied by a second volley of arrows. Silas moved quickly to avoid the sting of the enemy's shots. But he was not fast enough, and an arrow struck him in his right shoulder. He cried in pain and fell to his knees. To his right, he saw Asher stumble to the ground and fall on his back with a solitary arrow standing erect from his chest. Tears welled in his eyes as he crawled to his friend's side.
The Blade Heir (Book 1) Page 6
