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

by Lee H. Haywood

  “I’m no goblin, you daft fool,” cried Bently. “I’m a Capernican, look at me.”

  “Ha,” spurted the soldier. “I’ve heard better lies from a bird.” The man rose and fired again, this time falling pathetically short.

  “These are the youths of your army?” whispered Desperous out of the corner of his mouth.

  “We have to send the senile ones somewhere, too,” said Bently with a shrug.

  “Look,” yelled Desperous. “Let me properly introduce myself. I am Prince Desperous, brother of High Lord Rancor, and my comrade here is Captain Bently of the Elite Royal Guard. We are performing a mission as ordered by your supreme commander, General Waymire. If you would simply lower a ladder and allow just one of us to ascend, you would see that I do not lie.”

  One of the sentries ran up to the old man and whispered into his ear. The old man nodded knowingly, then addressed the pair. “You look far too foul to be a Luthuanian.”

  Desperous realized the old man was right. They were haggard and filthy, covered from head to foot in dried mud. They probably appeared nothing short of savages.

  “We have traveled for many days through the swamps of Ravor,” said Desperous throwing out his arms for effect. “I know our appearance must seem harsh, for we have endured many hardships, but I swear to you, we are as I told.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” shouted the old man. He pointed toward the swamp. “Leave here now, or I will set the whole of my forces against you. I promise their shots will not be as wayward as my own.”

  “He’s full of it,” whispered Bently. “Almost all of those figures up there are scarecrows.”

  “Scarecrows?” mouthed Desperous.

  “Aye,” said Bently. “In times of crisis the reserves are pulled off of the wall. In truth, I’m surprised there is anyone here at all. After the Nexus fell I assumed the walls would have been abandoned.”

  As Bently spoke, a spectacle quite to the contrary occurred. Men suddenly emerged in a bright array of suit and mail. Their banners flew high, bearing the standard of a bloody sword amidst three round hills. Desperous immediately recognized it as the crest of Westerhip.

  “Blessed Guardians,” shouted Bently as he slapped Desperous on the shoulder. “Things are not so dire yet. These are men of the Westerhip Guard.” Bently cupped his hands about his mouth and yelled with joy. “Is the Lord Halen amongst you, or his son Lord Mithrir?”

  This caught the men atop the battlement off guard, for how could a goblin of Ravor know the name of their lord? One man came forward, taller and leaner than the rest. “Who are you?” demanded the soldier.

  “Here is a man I know,” exclaimed Bently. “Ethenel! It is I, Captain Bently of the Manherm garrison.”

  “Captain Bently Troushire?” responded the man in shock.

  Desperous’s ears perked at the mention of Bently’s surname.

  Captain Ethenel raised the visor of his helm, shaking his head in disbelief. “How goes it that you are here?”

  “In time,” shouted Bently as he now walked forward without fear. “We have injured men who need help. Throw down a ladder and all will be explained.”

  A rope ladder uncoiled down the wall, and Bently quickly hoisted himself skyward. Ethenel met him atop the battlement and the two greeted each other as old comrades, slapping shoulders and shaking hands. Soon more ladders descended. Desperous went next and paused at the top, taking the chance to look back over the route they had traversed. He was in awe of their accomplishment. For a league or more lay red-stained earth, and beyond the black mire of Ravor. He motioned for Kylick to come forward, and the priestess complied. She pumped her hands into the air triumphantly, clearly enjoying her moment of revelry. She had found success where all of her ancestors had failed.

  The passage of the lumani from Ravor went on into the afternoon.

  • • •

  Desperous watched as Bently tended to Dolum’s savaged hand. The dwarf didn’t issue a single whimper as a needle was weaved though his raw flesh, drawing the wound shut with tight sutures. Desperous had a hard time believing this was the same dwarf they had left for dead in the River Deep, but then again, he had seen hints of Dolum’s stalwartness when he confronted the Guardian.

  They were somewhere within the labyrinth of barracks, storehouses, and armories that bore through the core of the Ravor Wall. A glowing brazier dimly lit the narrow enclosure. Bently shifted Dolum’s hand from side to side, checking it at odd angles in the amber light. Satisfied with his own work, he gave Dolum a nod of approval.

  Dolum gave his hand a tenuous test, clasping each finger to his thumb. His pointer and middle fingers did not budge. He shrugged off the implication.

  The wall was filled with enough rusted swords and brittle yew bows to arm a dozen armies. At a time, the garrison must have been splendid, but now only a few dozen guards manned each league of the wall. In a way, the wall was a relic, a shadow of a bygone era when King Johan could rouse great hosts of men to do his bidding. Desperous had collected a pile of arrows from one of the many armories and laid them out on the floor. He sighted each one, finding to his disappointment that they were all either warped or had rotten fletchings.

  “We leave at dawn,” said Kylick, as she joined the men in the alcove. She was accompanied by Sir Ethenel, who saluted Bently sharply when he entered.

  “Where do you intend to go?” asked Desperous, hopeful of her reply. He knew all were grateful for the respite, but they had no time to waste.

  Kylick grinned. “The Guardian has sent us to war, so to war we shall go. You said the fighting was last at New Halgath...”

  “We go to Luthuania,” said Dolum with surprising authority. “By now Halgath has either driven back the carrion horde or succumbed to the necromancer. Either way, the war will have passed on. The final hope lies in Luthuania. We must go there to bolster its defense.”

  “Bently?”

  “There is no use delaying in Capernicus, I’m certain of that,” replied Bently. “Luthuania seems the best choice.”

  Ethenel nodded. “I will go with Captain Troushire wherever he leads.” Bently glowered at the brazier, clearly displeased to be called by that name. Ethenel gave it no mind. “I have five score lancers, and a thousand men-at-arms. There is a caravan of civilians who followed us here. The survivors of Westerhip. I cannot abandon them completely, and will leave a few score to see to their protection. The rest will be ready to march at dawn.”

  “You will abandon the wall?” asked Desperous in genuine shock.

  Ethenel sighed. “What is left of the Ravor garrison will remain. But in truth, if the goblin horde presses the wall, there is naught they could do without the full might of Caper to their backs.”

  Kylick nodded in approval. “It will be willed one way or another by Fate. We cannot fret such matters.”

  “What of your Guardian?” asked Dolum, pressing the question that hung on everyone’s mind. “Is this whole plan in folly? Will Yansarian even return to Laveria?”

  Kylick scowled. “My people do not question the virtue of the god.” Even as she spoke those pious words, her eyes shied to the floor. “I am also not a fool. My faith does not blind me. I do not know if the Guardian has the strength to return to Laveria. I will pray for him, as we all should. He will need our strength if he is ever to arrive from over the sea.”

  “May the Creators bless him,” muttered Desperous dispassionately. He noted then, that for the first time since he had met the man, Bently did not cross himself at the Guardian’s mention. The death of one’s faith is as hard as any true death, thought Desperous.

  “If we leave tomorrow, what do we do about Ivatelo?” asked Dolum. “What if he doesn’t wake up by then?”

  “We’ll have to leave him,” said Bently.

  “I’m not sure he will ever wake up,” said Desperous.

  The prospect of abandoning the magic flustered the dwarf. “Well I’m not giving up on him quite yet.” He stood with a huff. “I’ll go
check on him. Make sure he looks comfortable.” He quickly disappeared down one of the tunnels that cobwebbed through the interior of the wall.

  Bently chuckled quietly to himself. “Can you believe that little whelp made it through Ravor all by himself?”

  “Oh?” exclaimed Desperous, with a raised eyebrow. “You had doubts?”

  “I thought he was a coward, through and through,” said Bently with a shake of his head. “There is bravery in that heart stronger than most men possess.”

  “He is his father’s son,” said Desperous. “The dwarves may seem like cowards, holing up in their mountain fortress. But they have a proud history and if wronged, they are not soon to forget.”

  Kylick nodded knowingly. “The dwarves of Halgath are the only people who ever willingly faced the lumani in battle. Give me a hundred legions of Halgans and I could have the whole world on bended knee to the one true god.”

  Desperous shuddered at Kylick’s zealotry. In another time, they would have likely been foes.

  There was a flurry of frantic steps from the tunnel below. Dolum came rushing into the alcove, his face furrowed with concern.

  “How is he?” asked Desperous, noting the dwarf’s expression. “Is something wrong?”

  “Ivatelo,” stammered Dolum, struggling to catch his breath. “He’s...he’s not there.”

  CHAPTER

  IX

  HOMECOMING

  Bently led the two armies through the now hostile territory of northern Capernicus. The major population centers were likely in the hands of the enemy, and they gave them a wide berth, choosing to stick to back trails. This made the going slow, but all agreed it was necessary. Forward scouting parties sighted small bands of dragoons on three occasions, but the main division was never pressed. It was unclear whether the enemy was not aware of the full army’s presence, or if they simply did not care.

  They arrived to the northern finger of the Eng Mountains on the sixth day of travel. Bently knew of an old trader’s path that snaked through the mountain. Snow still flanked the path, but the path itself had been churned into a muddy soup. Others had been using this passage since the arrival of spring. But who; the dead or the living? Gooseflesh pimpled Desperous’s skin at the thought of carrions overrunning his homeland. They needed to move faster.

  They descended from the Eng Mountains two days later, emerging in the eastern foothills near Capmel. The town was set at the base of a valley, and from this vantage the residents could spy the two armies advancing along the mountain path long before they arrived. Alarm bells tolled, and the whole valley rang with panic. A few townsmen armed with bows rushed to a makeshift barricade they had erected across the path; most everyone else fled into the forest. Desperous went ahead of the army and revealed himself to the men manning the barricade, finding that the garrison consisted of teenagers and decrepit old men. Noticeable relief was etched onto each man’s face when they saw it was Desperous leading the host.

  Desperous asked to speak with the lord of the Marlan valley, and Lord Viddick Ronin emerged from the throng of bewildered guards. The elderly lord had dire news. Luthuania had been under siege for over two weeks. The town’s garrison had already been recalled; all of the soldiery of Luthuania were mustering north of the capital. The final battle would come soon.

  The army marched south with haste. They crossed the Marlan at Gawu, and twenty-four days after departing Ravor they arrived at the coalition’s camp.

  The camp was nestled within a bowl-shaped valley that was bisected by a tributary of the Marlan. Many men were still breaking fast, and a thousand campfires glistened in the hills. The vast majority of men were still lounging cross-legged atop their sleep rolls. Some of the lords and knights had set up pavilions, while others strung tarps between trees to grant themselves some semblance of cover. The blacksmiths were already at work. Sharpening stones hummed incessantly, and hammers chimed like a morning bell. A chorus of bowstrings twanged from a nearby glade as archers practiced their shots on hay-filled dummies. A score of lancers went through the motions of mock charges, while a division of men practiced closing ranks and forming a prickly wall of impassable spears.

  Bently gaped in awe at the spectacle. “Many have answered the call of your high lord. There must be two thousand score, maybe twice that.”

  “And not just Luthuanians. Look, there are men!” Desperous pointed to a white tower flag above a nearby tent. “Waymire has rallied the southern legions.” The banners of Hedrotria, Karu, Emotria, and Donast all beat stiffly in the wind. But is it enough? Without the Guardian, he did not know.

  The denizens of the camp began to gather beside the path, men and elves alike, to watch the entrance of this odd procession. Most looked at the lumani with nervous intrigue, not knowing if they should be excited or fearful of their new ally. But upon seeing Desperous in their number, the Luthuanians dropped to their knees and raised their hands in fealty. “Our prince has come!” yelled one elf. Others soon joined the chant, which only brought more elves rushing to the scene to see what was transpiring.

  Desperous was not one to revel in the reverence of others, and he beckoned the men to rise. He barked out a few terse orders, guaranteeing the lumani received food and shelter, then he and Bently went in search of whoever was in command.

  A mammoth command tent was erected at the center of the encampment. Desperous pushed aside the flaps and was greeted by a hail of loud and urgent voices. Every perceivable accent filled the space, coalescing into a raucous uproar. A portly man in the livery of Emotria was barking his opinion over a table that ran the length of the enclosure, thrusting his finger into the face of the man directly across from him. The recipient of the diatribe curled his lips crossly, all the while shaking his head. His long black beard, which was knotted with wooden beads, swung like a pendulum before his belly. A pair of sere old men sat nearby, their faces red and wind-burnt. They were murmuring to one another in a dialect that was barely intelligible. Desperous recognized the intonation to be that of the sea people of Donast, or perhaps Tarmaly. Even a trio of Kari princes, crowned with cornets of gold and garbed in outlandish robes, had a place at the table. He spied Thatcher leaning against a support beam near the rear of the tent. He was in quiet discussion with a second man who Desperous had little doubt was also a dragon.

  All told, there were over fifty gathered within the tent, roughly half Luthuanians and half Capernicans. Wreathing the interior wall were the standards of a hundred or more houses that had come to war. Desperous was shocked to see so many disparate people gathered as one.

  Circling the table as if he were stalking prey was Disias. The lord looked a bit like a turtle, wearing an ill-fitting steel breastplate which appeared to be a High Tower suit repurposed to bear the white tower emblem of King Johan.

  There was clearly some debate on how to proceed.

  “I’d sooner march my men home than put a man on the field for this plan,” began a scowling Hedrotrian.

  Disias was at the man’s shoulder in an instant. “You will do as our queen bids,” said Disias sternly, as he slowly made eye contact with each Capernican. His face creased into a unctuous smile. “Thus is the purpose of fealty, my good lords. One gives today, one receives tomorrow.”

  “I’ve sworn no oath,” said an Emotrian incredulously. He crossed his arms like a sulking child.

  Disias whispered something into the man’s ear. The man’s face drained of color, and he shrunk in his chair. With a vicious smirk planted on his face, Disias continued his rotation about the room.

  One of the sea lords cleared his throat loudly and jutted his chin toward Desperous and Bently, who were still standing at the entrance. Desperous noted that General Bailrich was orchestrating the entire affair. The elf’s face drooped with exhaustion.

  Upon seeing Desperous, Bailrich immediately waved his hand, dismissing the gathering. “We need not belabor this any longer. What your commanders have asked of you is expected to be followed. End of discussion. Spre
ad word to your captains and prepare your men. We will meet again in a few hours to clarify and address any final concerns.”

  There was a low grumbling amongst the gathering, but most willingly acquiesced to the greater authority without further complaint. The throng began to jostle their way from the enclosure, and Desperous and Bently had to step aside to avoid being swept up in the stream.

  Bailrich came before Desperous and gave an obligatory bow. “Thank the Fates you’ve returned,” said the general. His lips momentarily lifted into a smile, displaying a rare sign of emotion from the typically impassive general.

  Soon, others arrived to welcome them home — Lord Disias, Thatcher, and two dragons Desperous did not recognize.

  Thatcher hugged Bently and Desperous, ignoring any expectations of decorum, and introduced his two companions. “Let me introduce you to Dai Ferrivo and Marshal.

  Desperous immediately made the connection and bowed. “You are the companion of Dain Camara.”

  Marshal smiled awkwardly, clearly struggling to contort his human visage. “I sense that Camara has not returned.”

  “When we left, she was well,” said Bently, making no mention of her brutal assault atop Spire Island. “She is waiting with our host. He has not yet regained his full strength.”

  A few stragglers were clearly eavesdropping, and everyone was careful not to use the Guardian’s name. The mission to awaken Yansarian was not common knowledge. Desperous imagined it would be wise to keep it that way. He did not wish to instill undue hope.

  “Although much might depend on him in the end, for now we must focus on fighting the war as if he will never come to our aid,” said Marshal.

  “A waste, truly it is,” grumbled Thatcher with clear displeasure. “But what other option do we have?”

  Bently frowned. “We’ve brought three thousand men, but it would have been better for this land had only one returned in our stead.”