The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3)

by Lee H. Haywood

  The rope suddenly uncoiled and Dolum dropped on his head.

  He sat up and gingerly rubbed his forehead. He was perplexed. How is it that this sere old woman doesn’t mean me any harm? He couldn’t imagine that was the case. Yet there she was, already slipping down a branching tunnel as if she didn’t care about him in the slightest. “Are you just leaving me here?” asked Dolum, unsure of what else to say.

  “Best to be following me,” hissed the woman with a wave of her hand. “I’ll show you the way out.”

  Dolum quickly weighed his options. He would be fine if she was alone, he surmised, but if there were others within these tunnels she was likely leading him to his death. At the mouth of the pit, Dolum could hear the pad of circling feet. This settled his choice. Dolum collected his blade and chased after the hobbling figure. “I’m in gratitude,” said Dolum. He stepped in front of the woman and reached out to shake her hand. “I never got your name. Mine’s Dolum.”

  “Darodar,” said the woman. She pivoted so that Dolum could see her aged and gnarled face in the dim light of the lantern.

  She was a hideous sight. Chapped lips wreathed a mouth of abraded teeth. Gaunt skin was stretched across the bony ridges of her chin and cheekbones. She possessed knotted stumps for ears, and a few wisps of white hair. Yet it was her eyes that troubled him the most. They were a dull white, without a pupil or iris to be seen.

  “You’re blind,” cried Dolum.

  “You’re a dwarf,” responded the woman with a low cackle.

  Dolum swallowed his shock. “Pardon my rudeness,” managed Dolum. “I meant no harm with my statement. It’s just...I’m a bit taken aback is all. How can you survive in such a hostile environment?”

  “It’s easy,” answered Darodar, pressing forward. “You become the evil that the goblins fear most.”

  Dolum did not know how to respond, and walked on in silence following the bobbing lantern. The diffused light weakly illuminated their surroundings, and did little more than serve as a beacon to follow. He dimly detected the shapes of rotten beams overhead and the suffocating press of damp walls on either side of the path. He imagined they were traveling through the derelict shafts of the old Caper mines. Everything threatened to crumble inward at the slightest touch. Dolum hunched his shoulders and bowed his head, hoping to make the passage without being buried alive.

  They came to a split in the path. Darodar took the left-most branch and Dolum did his best to remember that. Soon they came to another, and then another. Finally, they had made so many turns he was unable to keep track and eventually gave up. His fate was in Darodar’s hands.

  After traveling a league or more, they came to a rough-hewn chamber. At first glance it appeared to be a simple abode; a small bed, a mud brick hearth, a table strewn with various utensils. Yet upon entering the chamber, Dolum had to catch his breath not to cry out. Piled in neat stacks against each of the walls were hundreds of skulls.

  Darodar took Dolum’s hand before he could flee, and guided him to a bench. “Sit and rest for now,” said the woman with the forceful authority of a chiding mother. “I will make you something to eat.”

  Dolum agreed weakly to Darodar’s request and sat leaning against the wall. His mind shouted danger, but his legs felt as if they were cast in iron. He knew he would have to rest sometime, and at least here he could see the danger that confronted him. He pretended to fall asleep and watched the woman in wonder.

  For a while, Darodar rummaged through baskets as if searching for ingredients. Eventually, she halted in front of the table. Her eyes began to flutter with spastic jerks, and there she stood, transfixed with her palms flat against the table’s surface.

  Dolum shivered as he watched her, but even as he did his eyes grew heavy. He fought off sleep as long as he could, but eventually his eyes began to blink involuntarily; his head nodded uncooperatively. Exhaustion won.

  He awoke in a panic and frantically checked over his body. He was untouched and his dirk was still in its sheath. He let out a sigh of relief, cursing himself for being so foolish.

  Darodar was now sitting at the table. She somehow noticed he was awake and beckoned him over. “I have soup that you must eat.”

  Dolum warily took his seat across from the woman and eyed the earthen bowl. He could see brownish chunks of meat within the liquid. “I’m not hungry, but thank you,” lied Dolum.

  “I insist,” said Darodar.

  Not to appear ungrateful, Dolum pretended to eat, and after a while the woman seemed to be satisfied. She went to the wall. “Trophies of my ruler’s divine wrath. Sacrifices to his way,” said the woman as she clutched up a skull and hobbled back to the table. She slammed it down in the center and lit a blood red candle. She reached out and grasped Dolum’s hand before he could do anything. Running her fingertips over his palm slowly, she grimaced.

  “Things are not well for you.”

  Dolum gripped the hilt of his blade with his free hand, preparing to plunge it into her neck at the slightest hint of provocation.

  “Come, come.” She tugged at his arm with an unnatural strength. “My Lord Valio has imbued me with great skill. Sight without sight.” She forced his hand atop the skull, and held it firm with her steely grip.

  “Ap osvev’lipas oh,” wailed the woman as she drew her eyes shut and shuddered. “You were not always alone. There are others. Your friends, they make for the human wall...”

  “I thank you for your hospitality,” managed Dolum. “But I really think I should be going.”

  Darodar’s grasp tightened. “The tall ones guide the way. Blind warriors of the faith, they will be quickly lost in the maelstrom.” She lifted the candle and flung molten wax across their hands.

  Dolum flinched. “Please...”

  “The bullish one, his heart is already weak. He will put up little resistance when the time comes.”

  “Bently.” Dolum’s heart skipped.

  “The elf...” Her face grew puzzled. “He has not a future, for his life has already been spent.” She shuddered violently. “And the betrayer...his path lies with that of us all. Only if he reveals his sins will any be spared.” Her face fell into shadow. “The salvation they seek will not be found. Something dark looms over all.” Suddenly, she spit in the palm of her free hand and pressed it firmly against the other.

  She let out a horrid shriek that echoed through the chamber, and clutched blindly at Dolum’s sleeves. “The day of wrath is coming. The Dark One grows restless. But you bear his mark. Yes, you will do fine.”

  Dolum yanked his arm free of her hold and looked at her quizzically. “Bear the mark? What do you mean?” He glanced at his hand. The skin was pale were the wax had burned him. He frantically worked at it with his fingers, hoping he might rub the color back into his flesh.

  Darodar quickly hobbled away, returning with a torch. “They lie in wait where the cliff draws you narrow.”

  “Who, who lies in wait?”

  “The swarm. Their hunger will ravage all.” She began to push him toward a tunnel. “Take this path straight and true. Diverge not and you will arrive to the barren gates before your friends.”

  Dolum stumbled into the tunnel from her shove. He held the torch aloft and peered into the darkness. Nothing but harshly carved stone lay beyond. He dared one final glance at the mad witch and made up his mind. Dolum sprinted down the tunnel with all haste. Darodar’s voice echoed all about him.

  “Your friends are bound for death, save those you can.”

  CHAPTER

  VI

  RAVOR

  The lumani departed from the outpost at dawn with all the pomp one might expect from an army setting forth on a crusade. Scripture was read, absolutions were granted. Bells chimed, trumpets blared. White flags bearing the serpentine silhouette of the Guardian waved lithely at their lead. Kylick stood at the forefront of it all, garbed in polished steel armor that shone like a star against the drab backdrop of the swamp.

  The lumani marchwardens, who
called the fortified outpost home, had not sighted the goblin swarm in over a month. Kylick interpreted this as an omen from the gods. Desperous considered it blind luck that was likely to run out. There was a hubris about the lumani that Desperous feared would get them all killed. They believed everything was predestined from the gods, and if that were so, they need not fear fate, for it had already been decided.

  Kylick did not send out scouting parties, nor did she position men to protect their flanks. The lumani army pressed forward as one great moving mass. She established a foolishly fast pace, resting little and running her men ragged through terrain unsuitable for quick travel.

  There was no such thing as solid ground in Ravor. Swaths of marshland made up the greater part of the territory. Everything else was mud. Ankle deep mud. Mud that was crusted over like puzzle pieces. Mud as fluid as quicksand that consumed men up to their waists. There was a gentle grade to the land, albeit imperceptible to the eye. The algae-polluted water seemed to sluice inexhaustibly along this course, feeding into the main channel of the Zeveron River which Kylick insisted was somewhere to the south.

  The denizens were savage, but thankfully few; slithering snakes with diamond heads, lizards with long teeth that crawled about on their bellies, and the ever-present halo of carrion birds that circled overhead. The whole place stunk like a rotting carcass, although Desperous never saw anything except polished bones. An incessant cloud of buzzing flies and mosquitoes dogged their every step. Bently washed his skin in the mire to ward off the biting insects. Desperous thought the measure boorish, until he noticed his own forearms were inflicted with welts from bites he had never felt. He, too, covered himself in the stinking muck.

  They made camp the second night atop an outcrop of rock. The murmuring chatter Desperous overheard gave him the impression that no lumani had ever reported back from this far afield. In spite of the evening chill, Kylick allowed for no campfires. Desperous didn’t fault her for that; they need not draw undue attention. They were discovered all the same.

  Beyond the encampment, luminescent eyes blinked in and out of existence faster than the lumani could set arrows to their strings. The goblins knew they were there but had yet to gather their forces. Urged on by this, Kylick did not allow for a break the following day, hoping desperately to outrun any opposition that may come their way.

  The army managed to stick to land throughout most of the morning, but come midday, they could avoid the marsh no longer. They found themselves sloshing through the graveyard of a half submerged cypress forest. They gingerly traversed pools of green water studded by fanning balls of roots. The tangled web slowed their progress to a crawl. Sometimes the water was nearly waist-deep, at other times they climbed over humps of earth, only to fall back into the mire on the other side. To make matters worse, a storm had rolled in. Now, as evening drew near, Desperous could swear the water level was rising. Why the lumani had never reached the outer wall was starting to make sense.

  Desperous’s wraith body managed it all with numb perseverance. He felt tired no more so than he felt hunger or pain, yet he knew the journey was taking its toll on Bently. Desperous eyed the man with concern. Bently’s state was quickly deteriorating. His beard was flecked with froth and his breaths came out with great strain.

  Suddenly, Bently halted in place and grasped at his sides, looking as if he might wretch. In his deranged state he scooped a palmful of marsh water in his hands and lifted it to his mouth.

  Desperous swatted Bently’s hand aside before the water passed his lips. “By the gods, Bently. What are you doing?”

  A stupefied look overcame the man’s face. “I’m thirsty, is all,” spouted Bently like a drunkard.

  Desperous shoved a waterskin into Bently’s outstretched hands and hooked his arm around Bently’s waist. “We have to keep moving,” said Desperous. He began to pull the man along.

  Bently sneered and accepted the extra aid. Prideful as he was, he knew he needed assistance. “I ought to just stay put,” muttered Bently morosely. His voice was a mixture of anguish and resignation. But resignation of what? That he would die? That they would fail? That Yansarian was a fraud? Desperous shuffled onward, taking on as much of Bently’s weight as he could manage.

  “You know I served here once,” continued Bently with slurred speech. “On the wall that is. Worst year of my life. I left Maya pregnant. By the gods, she cursed me for that.” A prideful smile creased his lips. “But I came home a father. I told General Waymire he would have to send me back in shackles if he ever commanded me to return. It’s laughable to think I’m on the inside looking out.”

  “We’ll make it,” said Desperous, taking on a false tone of confidence. Desperous was certain his wraith body would survive the journey as long as he wasn’t hacked to bits by the goblins. He knew Ivatelo would make the crossing; nothing was likely to stop the stubborn magic. But he was not so certain about Bently.

  “You’ll survive this,” said Bently, as if he could read Desperous’s mind. He smirked wryly. “I’ve seen to that. You’ll survive for all of forever and wish you hadn’t. If you hate me, that’s fair. But I did what I thought needed to be done.”

  “Thus is the burden of leadership,” said Desperous. There was no hidden rage in his heart, he was too numb to feel anything so vitriolic. He shook his head, finding it difficult to shape his thoughts into words. “You know, I’ve spent months away from home over the years. Yet this time feels different. I’ve never felt so far away, or that I’ve ever been gone for quite so long. I know not if I can even recall the image of my family. I’ve tried, but I see only blurred visages, unsteady forms. I fear I would not recognize them if I returned home.”

  “I can still see my family,” muttered Bently. “They come to me in my dreams.” There was an edge of delirium to his voice. “Do you remember those men who attacked us outside of Ivatelo’s home?”

  Desperous nodded.

  “Two of those men served under me at Manherm,” said Bently quietly. “They were bought by the necromancer. He was using them to identify me. One of the men spoke to me before his last breath passed. He said they went to my estate outside the city. He said the bloodline must be cut. My wife and child were laid down because they carried my name.” He bit his lip so harshly it bled.

  “May they find peace in Elandria,” whispered Desperous, knowing not what else to say.

  “If it were only that simple,” answered Bently in a choked voice. “You see, I sent them to their death. I knew that when I left Manherm...” He trailed off, clearly unsure if he should continue.

  “I’m a friend,” said Desperous, finding that he truly meant the words. “I will not judge, nor will I betray your trust.”

  “I know this,” said Bently shaking his head in despair. “But too much sorrow has already happened, and to you most of all. I will not lay my burden on the brow of another.”

  Desperous accepted Bently’s silence for what it was; a choice not to speak about something that paralyzed him with pain. Yet there was something that Bently said — that his family had died because they carried his name. Desperous thought it odd. In Caper the first born son inherited his father’s titles and estates. It was therefore tradition that the junior sons swore the oath of servitude and became guardsmen. Bently was doubtlessly from some noble house, yet the man had never willingly produced his surname when introducing himself to others.

  Desperous studied the perplexing features of Bently’s face. The narrow nose. The deep set eyes. Pupils rimmed with blue and flecks of gray. All framed by a square jaw, round cheeks, and a straight brow. Bently’s beard served well to conceal his distinct features, but the more Desperous weighed the matter, the more he became unsettled by the resemblance.

  “Bently...,” began Desperous, unsure if he should press the issue.

  The man’s eyes suddenly flickered with life. He jutted his chin toward the horizon. “Look, some dry land.” Sure enough, not a hundred paces away the rotting forest ended in a line, an
d beyond lay two bulging crags of eroded red earth. The two outcrops looked unnatural, rising a dozen yards above the surface of the water with sheer sides facing each other.

  “Blessed be the Guardians!” exclaimed Bently. He crossed himself with sudden exuberance.

  Desperous looked at his comrade shrewdly, thinking he had gone mad.

  “It’s the remains of Fort Carnack.” Bently began to point about excitedly. “If you look closely you can see other parts of the ruins peeking above the surface.”

  Here and there were small mounds poking above the waterline. It pretty clearly formed a large rectangle.

  “The fort was the last holdout of the Folchechip tribes. If my memory serves me right, the fortress was set along the Zeveron River. There are highlands along the southern bank that should not be flooded. And from there it’s only a couple of leagues further to the wall.”

  For the first time in quite a while a smile spread across Desperous’s face. “We might get out of here after all.”

  The water rose nearly to their waists as they waded into the footprint of the old fortress. It must have once been a grand complex; its sunken ruins spanned for several acres. The two clumps of red earth they had spied from afar took shape as they neared, and were clearly the eroded remains of a curtain wall. Beyond lay a thick swath of water. From the way it galloped and churned there was little doubt about it, it was the main channel of the Zeveron. And as Bently had predicted, solid land lay on the other side.

  Kylick began to belt out orders. “We’re going to have to swim across. If your provisions are too heavy, leave them here. Go in pairs and be mindful, the current looks fast.”

  “Priestess.” All eyes shifted down the line to a young lumani. “There is something on the other side.”