Collectively they squinted into the rain-clouded distance. While obscured by the haze, it was true; a goblin was standing at the base of the abraded bank. The creature was covered from head to toe in filth. It was dancing back and forth from foot to foot and waving its arms like a madman, as if beckoning them to make the crossing.
“Should I pick him off?” A number of archers had already notched arrows to their longbows.
Kylick snorted with contempt. “Stick an arrow in the wretch and start going across.”
Desperous only vaguely heard the commotion. His attention was on the remains of the wall. Dusk was upon them, and this, coupled with the overcast sky, veiled everything in gray shadows. Still, he swore he detected faint lines carved into the soft stone face of the wall.
“Do you see that?” asked Desperous of Bently.
The man shrugged, his attention was clearly drawn to the goblin across the river.
Ivatelo, who had kept his distance for much of the journey since Coralan, wove his way through the swath of milling lumani. “You see it as well?” said the magic quietly.
Desperous shuddered. He had said nothing to the magic, yet somehow he knew.
Desperous advanced toward the ruins, leaving the protective ranks of lumani who remained near the edge of the current. He could now clearly discern the markings. They were letters, fashioned in the common script. “AMB” they read. Each was sloppily scored into the stone with long hasty strokes.
“They’re freshly carved, by the looks of them,” said the magic.
Desperous doubted the goblins knew the common script.
“This is a dark land and this accursed ruin is draped in treachery and dread,” said Ivatelo. “We have already lingered here too long.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” called Bently. “I’m going to go see why they haven’t stuck an arrow into that fool goblin yet.” He hobbled off, clumsily shoving his way to the front of the crowd.
Desperous’s attention was suddenly drawn to an unusual flutter in the water surrounding the outskirts of the fortress. It was as if a great school of fish were fleeing a predator. The water rippled and leaped.
“Wait, Bently!” yelled Desperous over his shoulder. Something wasn’t right. The rain was coming down in sheets, chopping the surface of the water, but it was not with enough force to explain what Desperous was seeing. The water was now bubbling and bulging within the footprint of the ruins.
Desperous looked to Ivatelo. There was no need for words to be exchanged; they were both experiencing the same fear.
“To me!” roared Desperous, in a voice learned from years in command. “Spears abreast! Close ranks! To me! To me!”
But it was too late.
Something hard bumped into Desperous’s leg. He glanced down just in time to see a figure slip by mere inches below the surface of the water. He cringed in horror. The goblin swarm had found them.
• • •
Exhaustion had a way of driving all rational thoughts from Dolum’s mind. The sensation of abject terror that had filled his gut and paralyzed him into inaction since he had left New Halgath had slipped into the background. He simply existed, and the world about him felt surreal. The black tunnel which bore through the ground like the gut of some great serpent gave Dolum no pause. His exit from the subterranean world and return to the drab swamp was met with neither happiness nor despair. He stubbornly trudged onward, one foot in front of the next, until he finally reached the ruins that Darador had proposed he seek out. The scene that lay before him was not what he expected.
“It’s now life or death, mate,” muttered Dolum, as he smacked his cheeks in a vain effort to rattle the cobwebs from his brain.
He had not beaten the goblin horde to the ruins. A few of the wretched creatures skulked about the red stone ruins, while the rest were massed just within the confines of the sunken forest. The black vile mess of slithering bodies were clearly prepping for battle; whetting blades, and smearing red war paint across their bone armor and exposed flesh. Dolum’s skin pimpled at the sight of the repulsive creatures. He had to find a way to warn the lumani.
Doing his best to evade detection, Dolum slunk around the swarm and made his way up the weathered stairs of the battlement wall. The stones were as brittle as chalk and he had to crawl on his hands and knees to reach the top. When he arrived at the summit he took out his dirk and with hasty strokes began to carve a warning into the face of the wall. But before he could finish etching his message, an arrow embedded into the soft stone just inches from his hand. Dolum gulped down his instinct to cower, knowing he had no time to hesitate.
“Move!” he yelled, and he did, with motions so deft he surprised even himself. He swung one foot over the top of the parapet, and let his body tumble into the churning water beyond. He didn’t come up for air, but instead dove deep, letting his body get pulled into the coursing water. With long powerful strokes he made for the far shore, only surfacing when he reached the abraded bank. Lifting his head, so only his eyes and forehead crested the surface, he looked to the ruined fortress.
A dozen goblins were crawling about the wall like ants. They issued croaking cries to one another as they looked this way and that for Dolum’s whereabouts. Dolum sighed in distress. He had no option but to wait. He worked his body into the mud embankment until nothing was exposed except his eyes, and there he lay hid for nearly half the day, shivering against the biting cold of the mire. The lumani would come, he had confidence in Darador’s premonition, but he could only hope they would comprehend and heed his incomplete warning.
He must have drifted to sleep, because Dolum suddenly became aware of voices breaking the monotonous babble of the water. A great mass of bodies were standing waist deep on the far side of the river. Frantic, Dolum emerged from the mud, and began to jump up and down like a fool, screaming at the top of his lungs. But it was no use. Kylick could not hear his cries over the thunder of the river and the pounding of the rain. Inexplicably, lumani archers began to nock arrows to their bowstrings and marked them on his position.
“No, wait! There’s an ambush,” yelled Dolm in despair.
The arrows took flight.
Dolum did the only thing he could; he dove headlong into the galloping water hoping that he might arrive to the lumani lines and reveal himself before an arrow found its mark. But when Dolum reemerged in the shallows of the far shore he realized his message was too long delayed. Chaos had erupted, and a scene of complete madness lay before him.
The swath of water between the forest and the main channel had become a writhing mob of beating limbs and hewing blades. The goblin swarm came on as a pressing wave, a dozen or more for every red cloak. Some goblins had painted their naked bodies garish colors, while others were garbed in stark white bone armor or swaddled in the thick-scaled hides of dead reptiles. The goblins bounded atop the chests of the lumani, strangling their victims in the water, or stabbing into their unprotected necks with quick spastic jabs of flint blades. The lumani bayed and cursed, hacking with all of their might when they had enough room to maneuver their blades. Yet seldom did they have the space, and most wrestled with their attackers in the water. By sheer numbers alone the goblins would win the day. Overwhelmed, one by one the lumani were driven into the swift current of the Zeveron. Many, weighted down by their provisions, sunk below the surface never to rise again.
Dolum’s feet had hardly touched the silted shallows when a goblin dove at him with an obsidian blade. All Dolum could do was raise his left hand to ward off the strike. The blade sheered through the sinew between his pointer and middle fingers. Without a moment’s hesitation, Dolum brought the tip of his dirk into his attacker’s gut. Instantly, the goblin kicked away, disappearing into the churning water like a darting toad.
Dolum examined his ghastly injury. His skin grew cold, and he feared for a moment he might faint. He could clearly see the underlying tendon and white bone of his hand. He clasped his quivering hand into his armpit in a futile attempt
to stem the bleeding, all the while pointing his dirk warily toward the pressing throng of goblins that were hemming him in.
Slavering lips and malevolent eyes were all he could see.
“My breath is my king’s!” roared Dolum, finding his voice. “Till my life is unspun, and I heed my soul’s beckoning!” He dove into the fray. Yet before he could reach his nearest foe, he was sent plummeting through the water as if crushed by a falling boulder. The air burst from his lungs as he came to a stop, deep within the pasty mud of the swamp. Dolum struggled to rise, but there was no resisting such overwhelming power. His body was held firm, as if hands were pulling him down into the earth. That’s when he noticed everyone had been stricken by the same paralyzing blow. Lumani and goblins alike lay prostrate on the swamp floor. The water had been pressed away, so that it tumbled on the perimeter as an ever-crashing wave.
A voice belted out a call that tolled like the roll of thunder. “Children of the Wyserum, disciples of the gods. Your service is called upon!”
All heads were forcefully drawn toward a single figure that hovered in the sky. The cloaked form floated above the ruins of the curtain wall. His hooded face was cast in shadow. A surging blue light boiled about his outstretched arms and twisted tumultuously around his feet.
“The day of reckoning is at hand and soon the Wyserum will return to claim their dominion.” The message echoed across the watery plains. The wickedness and power within was undeniable. “The souls of the unworthy shall be consumed. Only those who are faithful will be left to inherit the wealth of the world.”
The figure slowly lifted his head casting back his hood. Dolum gasped; it was unmistakable. The godly figure was Ivatelo, yet his face was not the same. His hair and beard were shaved clean, his skin was laid smooth, almost featureless, and his pupils glowed white with surging power.
“The Wyserum have not forgotten their children.” For an instant the image of a winged beast flashed overhead. Its spindly legs twitching downward, its beaked maw swung agape. It was the Wyrm in all its horrid glory, exposed for a brief moment in its most base form. The serpent receded and the image of Ivatelo returned.
“The lumani will accompany me and clear the way for the faithful. We will free the men of Caper of their precious wall and herald forth your coming. Return to your camps, dark children. Rest and await my call. When the time comes we will march forth together and lay waste to the captors who have long ruled over you with vile cause.”
The vise-like grip that held Dolum fast suddenly released, and the water roiled back across the mudflat. Dolum was sent tumbling by the rushing current. He finally managed to kick to the surface and immediately looked skyward; the figure was gone. What had happened? Was Ivatelo still a servant of the Wyrm? Or had that been a grand farce?
That’s when Dolum realized he had lost his dirk. He dove back underwater, and frantically thrashed his hands about the muddy bottom, desperately searching for his weapon, any weapon. But it was to no end. When he rose back to the surface with no blade at hand he found himself confronted by a pair of goblins. The two blinked at him with their vicious yellow eyes. Without a look of worry or discontent, each sheathed their blades, and like obedient children, they walked silently through the lumani ranks.
The lumani held their blades ready to strike at the slightest sign of aggression, but it was as if the goblins were all of a single mind. They filed away, trailing from the bloodied lumani ranks in a slow line, displaying no sense of urgency.
Kylick immediately barked out orders, setting her army into formation. A wall of shields was raised in case the goblins decided to return.
Dolum tore a strip of fabric loose from his shirt and wrapped his ghastly wound. With the bleeding momentarily stemmed, Dolum scanned the scene, finally finding Bently and Desperous deep amongst the lumani army. He pushed through to their side, and let out a stifled cry. Ivatelo lay limp in Desperous’s arms. The aura of light had vanished from the man’s wizened body. The magic’s face was as white as a ghost and his mouth lay agape.
“Is he dead?” asked Dolum timidly.
“He can’t die,” said Desperous without looking up. “Yet he has purged his energies. We’ll have to wait and see if he will regain his strength.”
“That selfless, clever saint,” said Bently quietly. “Save for him, we would all be dead.”
“Aye,” answered Dolum. “You know, there’s an old dwarven proverb that tells the tale of Conley the Brave. He was a...”
Desperous looked up with a queer expression on his face. “Dolum?”
Bently spun around. His voice came out in hardly a whisper. “Blessed be the Guardians.” He ran forward and clutched Dolum into the air. “You’re alive!” exclaimed the man in an explosion of jubilance.
“So it would seem,” said Dolum as he was swung dizzily about.
“How?” yelled out Bently. “How have you managed such a feat?”
Dolum felt as if he were going to be ill. “If you would be so kind as to put me down, I’ll tell you everything.”
CHAPTER
VII
THE HIGH LORD
Rancor wound down the dank tunnel of the eastern tower. He did not wish to do this, but he had no choice; Tulea had played her hand cunningly. Time was growing short and Rancor’s options were now few. If he didn’t wrest the whereabouts of the Orb from his stubborn father, the Council certainly would. And he knew without a doubt, Tulea’s interrogation methods would not be so measured.
The carrion horde had arrived the previous morning. So great was their number, their blackness defiled the entire western field before Luthuania. From the hill upon which High Tower was built, Rancor could clearly watch them as they came. Column after column of rotting flesh snaked out of the surrounding forest. The scope of it was staggering, and already the people were losing hope. Every temple in the city, be it for the Creators, Vacia, or the Weaver, was filled with supplicants begging their gods for protection. Rancor had learned long ago that gods don’t save people; that task fell squarely to kings, but Rancor wasn’t certain he could save his people from this.
He rapped loudly upon the door and demanded entrance into the cell. A High Tower guard parted the reinforced door and saluted sharply upon seeing it was Rancor. Without saying a word, the guard took his leave. A lone figure lay stretched over the cell’s only bench. Parallel cast iron bars bisected the room, separating jailer from jailed.
“Have you come to send me to the executioner’s block?” asked Nochman sardonically. For the first time in his life, Rancor imagined his father appeared his age. His flesh looked gaunt and sallow in the flickering light provided by the oil lamp. His eyes were sunken and rimmed with black. A plate of roasted game hen and stale bread sat uneaten on the floor. Tulea doesn’t care if you don’t eat, Rancor wanted to scream. Instead, he spoke only of his intent.
“I want the Orb, Father,” said Rancor, doing his best to ignore his father’s deteriorating condition.
“So, you’re going to play into their game,” said Nochman, chuckling softly to himself. “Don’t mistake this, Son. This family is all you have. Turn your back on us and you’re in a sea of sharks.”
“I’m not playing games anymore. What hope the city has resides in that Orb.”
“Is that what they’re telling you?” asked Nochman. “The Orb is not a carrot you can wave before the necromancer’s nose and use to lead him away like some tractable horse. He’ll raze this city all the same, then continue on his hunt. And truly, where might you take the Orb that would be safer than here?”
Rancor wanted to tell his father all, to let Nochman’s sagacious mind weigh the merits of his plan. Evelyn Manherm is our hope; a honed weapon of Johan’s arsenal, just like the necromancer. With the Orb, she can win the day. Or blast them all into oblivion, Nochman would likely reply. Rancor kept his plan to himself.
“The enemy is at our gates, Father. We have precious little time...”
“It’s never too late,” interrupted
Nochman. He rose from his stoop with sudden fury. “Rally the troops. Bargain with cold steel.”
“Give me the damn Orb!” shouted Rancor. His voice was so intense that he startled even himself. He immediately regretted the outburst, but the damage was already done.
Nochman gazed upon his son with soft eyes, looking at him almost inquisitively. “When did my son become such a tyrant that the advice of his father no longer held ground?”
“You don’t understand the direness of the situation, Father.”
Nochman cocked his head sideways. “You’re telling me, the one they once called Nochman the Wise, that I fail to comprehend the direness of the situation.” Nochman’s voice grew icy. “Have you any idea what this empire was built upon?” snarled Nochman. “Anger. I hated the Wyrm, I hated the Guardians, and above all else I hated myself.” He pounded his fist against the metal bars. “And for that reason, I would never fail. I would never make the wrong choice. I spent my entire life building this empire stone by stone, and you dare tell me I don’t understand the situation?”
“You never have,” countered Rancor.
“Tell me this, Son, since we are at a time when truths should probably be told. When the Council forced my abdication, I always imagined they could not have acted without the blessing of one of my sons. I could trust Desperous to be honorable. But you, Rancor, I have always wondered to what extremes your ambition would lead.”
“Yes,” answered Rancor. He did not need to hear the question. “I approved the Council’s action. You were a leader for an era that had passed. The wars with Capernicus were through. You were no longer the high lord Luthuania needed.”
“You could fairly judge all of this?” snapped Nochman. He glared at his son with an anger Rancor had never seen before. His voice dropped low, dangerous. “What wrong have I done you?” hissed Nochman. “What could possibly cause such spite and animosity toward your own father?”
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 7
