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

by Lee H. Haywood

  “Dragon folk have come from as far as Eremor,” continued Thatcher, trying to instill hope in the bleak endeavor. “We will be on top of the Necromancer’s dragons as soon as they take to the skies. We’ll do the best we can to keep them from your infantry.”

  “I know you will,” said Desperous. He placed his hand over his heart. “No matter the fate that befalls us this day, our people will forever be in gratitude.”

  The two bid him well and then were off, disappearing into the darkness of the night sky. Lightning smote the earth, and Desperous momentarily spied the black outlines of dozens of dragons in amongst the roiling swath of gray clouds. They circled and wheeled like a flock of ravens.

  “Where the dragons go, the creatons of Laveria should have heart,” whispered Desperous to himself. He clutched Camara’s blue stone in his hand. It was cold as ice. He shook his head dourly. But without the Guardian, what hope do we truly have?

  He led the army onward.

  Desperous’s heart quickened as they cleared the forest and entered the farmland that stretched for leagues before Luthuania. All that remained of the once verdant land were charred stalks of grain and the fire-blasted skeletons of farmhouses. All drifted by like ghosts in the gloom.

  The sky softened to a shade of gray, and on the horizon there was a wedge of orange. It could only mean one thing; the sun had risen. For now, it remained hidden behind the swath of clouds and sheets of pelting rain. Desperous prayed silently for the rains to continue until all armies were gathered into position.

  As the three great armies began to fan out across the plain, slowly ensnaring the enemy between themselves and the walls of the city, Desperous envisioned the lay of the land. There were three high hills before Luthuania. Petrel to the north, Serel to the east, and Ois to the southeast. The enemy was positioned in the shape of a hook across the valley these three hills created. The Halgan army would settle at the base of Petrel while the Men of Caper would be situated atop of Ois. The Luthuanian forces would take Serel and face the enemy head on. The necromancer’s camp was said to be positioned at the enemy’s center. With the dwarves of Halgath and men of Caper protecting their flanks, Desperous was to cut a path to the necromancer.

  The spearmen of Luthuania stalwartly took their position atop Serel, facing the rain-dashed field before them with a steady gaze. They were neither overzealous nor deep in fear. Instead, a stillness had seized them, as if they were now, each and every one of them, coming to terms with their own mortality. Desperous gave them a final nod of respect and then snapped out his hands. Taking their cue, flag bearers at his sides raised up a series of flashes and the men were set in motion. Their movements were practiced and silent. The spear bearers knelt, creating a brier patch of jutting steel.

  Settled behind them were the famed elven rangers, garbed in greens and grays that made them nearly imperceptible atop the crest of the hill. They stood three deep, each with a payload of arrows poised at their hip. To their rear were the lumani, armed with heavy long bows. They snaked across the landscape like a river of blood, their red cloaks billowing in the wind.

  Atop his mount, rain dripped from Desperous’s hand as he reached for his own arrow. He set it to his string and sighted into the darkness. The sheets of rain obscured any vision of the enemy. Last second worries flooded into his mind. What if the enemy had moved? What if the intelligence was wrong? He shook the thoughts from his head. It didn’t matter anymore. They were committed. Grinding his teeth, Desperous arched back and took aim. His men followed suit, each holding steady until their prince let the first shot fly.

  As Desperous aimed into the void, Camara’s words echoed in his head. “The Guardian will not save these people,” Desperous whispered to himself. “It is to me now.”

  It was in that moment of uncertainty that something miraculous happened. With the whole of the Luthuanian army taking aim into the turbulent sky, the rain suddenly ceased. It was as if some unseen god had willed it to happen. The clouds parted, and a single ray of light pierced the veil, illuminating the plains before Luthuania. The carrion horde was suddenly alight in all its horrid glory, positioned just as had been foretold. The writhing mob was so tight the figures were nearly indistinguishable from one another. The archers couldn’t miss.

  “Lead them, Desperous!” A voice whispered in the recesses of his mind. Nature or god, it was a miracle all the same.

  Desperous roared out his final command. “Let fly the wrath of Luthuania!” The elves let loose, and the sky was once again blotted into darkness as their deadly payload overshadowed the earth.

  • • •

  In the distance, Coljack burned. The amber glow of fire perfectly outlined the jagged teeth of its battlements. Beyond the wall, tendrils of flame jutted from the rooftop of the tower keep. Alarm bells dimly rang, their distress shrouded by the distance. There was a low rumble, and brick by brick the east tower began to come down on top of itself, sending a trail of cinders spiraling skyward. The Tower of Repentance, the prisoners had called it. Demetry was glad he witnessed its fall. He had suffered long hours of torment within its open air turret.

  “It is best that the other prisoners hear your cries of penance,” the Yanish brothers would say, as they skillfully plied their craft. They were likely burning somewhere within the conflagration. Demetry smiled at the thought. The Sundered Soul had served him well.

  “We can stop now, Demetry,” called an exhausted voice. The speaker was hidden within the shadow of night. All Demetry could see of the man was his balding crown glowing like a halo from the firelight. “They haven’t the strength to contest us. They know that now.”

  Indeed they do, thought Demetry. His eyes honed in on Jeremiah’s bent frame. The elderly magic, garbed in mere rags, was making his way over the final hump of the furrowed wheat field that flanked the eastern wall of the prison. Behind him the golden stalks of grain oddly mirrored the flames, like moonbeams broadcasting across placid water.

  “I need to rest,” continued Jeremiah. He coughed harshly into his hand. “I’m too old to be running aimlessly in the night.” Jeremiah’s face was oddly sedate for someone who had just escaped prison. He slowly ran his hand over the stalks of grain, letting it tickle across the tips of his fingers. He smiled faintly, hovered there a moment longer, and then stumbled to his knees as his legs gave out beneath him.

  Demetry gasped and ran to his mentor’s side, arriving just in time to catch his fall. As Demetry collected Jeremiah’s frame, his hand struck something jagged and damp. His stomach knotted. He ran his fingers gingerly over the finely sharpened metallic head and the wooden shaft. His blood ran cold. An arrow protruded from Jeremiah’s back beneath his shoulder.

  “You’ve been struck,” managed Demetry. He nearly choked on the words. “Your wards should have protected you.”

  “Yet they did not,” said Jeremiah. He nodded his head slowly and smiled that foolish grin he was wont to do. “You’ve done well, Demetry. I can ask nothing more.”

  Demetry could have screamed in Jeremiah’s face right then and there. Selfish. Selfish. Selfish! But agony reigned supreme over anger, and all he could manage to utter was, “No,” his voice having already gone hoarse. With trembling hands, he cradled Jeremiah’s frail body and began to cast a spell of healing. Jeremiah steadied his hand.

  “Wait a moment and look at the stars with me.” Jeremiah’s voice was calm.

  “There’s no time.”

  “There’s always time for a moment,” said Jeremiah. “Look at how they shine. It is astounding.”

  Demetry followed his elder’s command and glanced up at the night sky. The stars were brighter than he ever remembered them being. The beauty caused his breath to be still. “You’re right, Jeremiah, it truly is astounding.”

  There was no response.

  Demetry remained at Jeremiah’s side choking with grief. The pain was paralyzing, and for a long while he could do nothing, save stare into the face of the man he had loved like a father
. Jeremiah’s flesh gradually became pale, and then cold. All semblance of life slipped away. “You betrayed me,” said Demetry. He sniffed, wiping away the onset of a tear. “You’re selfish. You know that, right? You’ve left me alone.”

  The field was embraced by a wicked chill as the Sundered Soul was called upon. The stalks of grain surrounding him froze solid and began to snap like icicles. Demetry shivered uncontrollably, and he found it difficult to steady his hands. Yet with practiced precision, he completed the spell.

  Slowly the dead lips parted. A rasp of breath passed from Jeremiah’s throat as the tongue rose and fell. Demetry dropped his ear to his mentor’s lips. “Release your army and walk from here, Demetry,” whispered the magic. “Your doom has come.”

  Demetry awoke from his slumber with a start.

  He found that he was chilled to the bone; he had kicked his sheets off sometime in the night. He quickly collected the wool blanket and pulled it tight about his frame. Above him, a beam of light radiated through a small hole that cut through the rough fabric of his tent. Motes of dust danced in the light, twinkling ephemerally as they popped in and out of existence. “Starlight,” gasped Demetry, as he grasped at the nothingness, causing the specks to shift and stir.

  “They’re coming,” whispered a nagging voice.

  He rose upright in bed just as an arrow came plunging through the top of his tent. It embedded itself into his bedside table with a thwack. Demetry watched wide-eyed as the wooden shaft vibrated back and forth.

  Frantic screams resounded from outside, and for a second it sounded as if a hail storm was battering the camp. He jumped from his cot and scrambled through the tent flaps, his anger brimming. What have the ignorant dragoons gotten us into?

  Almost immediately a volley of arrows came hissing his way. They hardly gave him pause. Swiping his hand haphazardly, he forced the entire barrage of arrows to fall short of their target.

  Luca Marcus occupied the tent directly across from his own. The proconsul came bustling out in a blind rage. He grabbed the first dragoon that ran by, hooking his metal-edged fingertips into the dragoon’s neck. “Marshal the carrions and send them up the hill!”

  The dragoon nodded dumbly and ran off. Yet luck was not on his side. He managed only a few paces before being struck squarely in the chest. He let out a howl of pain and collapsed to the ground, grabbing at the shaft stuck in his right breast.

  Demetry looked at the hapless dragoon for a moment, watching with intrigue as the blood pooled in the hollow of his chest and ran across his heaving stomach. Demetry knew he could save the dragoon if he wanted to, but it wasn’t worth his effort. The fool dragoon is getting what he deserves.

  “The creatons have finally come to play,” said Demetry with a scowl. His initial reaction of anger quickly subsided as he spied the creaton ranks. They hadn’t the numbers to pose a serious threat. Still, the battle was going to prove costly. He silently wondered if this would be a good time to expend the lives of a few troublesome dragoons.

  Korre burst from his tent with his entourage of soldiers. His men were stippled in war paint and carried heavy tower shields. They created a protective barrier around their chieftain, frantically catching any bolts that drew near. Korre seemed to care nothing of his peril; he walked toward the field of battle with all the poise of a man who figured himself immortal. He passed Demetry and Luca without giving them so much as an acknowledgment.

  “That seems peculiar, doesn’t it?”

  The dragoon was already dressed for battle, wearing his garish rust-stained armor. It was almost as if the dragoon had known of the counter assault. Disconcerted, Demetry made as to inquire, but Luca interrupted his train of thought.

  “I trust the Order’s services will not be needed on this day,” said Luca critically, drawing the dragoon to a halt.

  “My dragoons will take care of this,” said Korre. His serpentine eyes quickly flicked from one hill to the next, sizing up his quarry and formulating a counterstroke.

  Demetry pointed to the tri-rays flags fluttering atop Serel Hill. “I want you to lead the advance that displaces those Luthuanians. Drive them out of bowshot or force them into battle.”

  Korre grunted in response. As he passed the downed dragoon, the afflicted soldier reached toward his chieftain, pleading for help. Korre looked down with a face contorted in utter disgust and spit upon his writhing comrade. “Die with honor,” hissed Korre. He marched into the war zone.

  • • •

  The carrions were collapsing en masse, pressed to the earth by wave after wave of hissing arrows. Their normally expressionless faces were contorted in their death throes, as arrowheads punctured skulls and shattered bones. Many dragoons met the same fate, struck down as they exited their tents, their arms outstretched as they struggled to put on armor, their faces posed in queer expressions of surprise.

  In the first panicked moments of the battle, the unprepared dragoon commanders ordered the carrions forward in unruly swaths. It was exactly as Desperous had hoped. The carrions charged up the hill like mindless savages. But as soon as they hit the steep water-drenched slope the calamity began. The carrions, confused by the new stimulus of slippery grass, stumbled and formed a bottleneck, making for easy targets.

  Desperous rode at the head of it all, several yards before the protective lines of his men. Without fear of death, he had no inhibitions. He charged down the line as arrows whizzed overhead, ordering the men to fill gaps in the formation.

  “Tuck down that spear!” Desperous ordered one soldier. “Hold the line!” he belted to another.

  The first staggered wave of carrions reached the crest of the hill, and Desperous found himself cut off from his army. Rotting hands pawed at his legs and buffeted the flanks of his horse. His stallion reared and kicked, breaking limbs and chests with his ironshod hooves.

  “For Luthuania!” cried Desperous, as he hewed a dozen grasping hands, freeing them from their owners’ bodies. He spurred his mount, and the stallion barreled through the throng, forging a path back to the protective lines of the Luthuanian army.

  Right on their heels came the carrions. The archers unloaded their shots into the awful rotten faces at point-blank range. Spearheads pumped and stabbed. The carrions fell by the hundreds, painting the front lines of the Luthuanian army black with their putrid blood. But each vanquished foe was a mere speck in the horde — a dozen more immediately replaced them — and as the unstoppable throng began to make headway into the Luthuanian ranks, the last visage of humanity vanished. The Luthuanians might as well have been beset by a pack of wolves. Yellow teeth bit and gnashed. Leathery hands throttled necks and tore at flesh. Bone thin arms bludgeoned with cudgels and hacked with blades. All was mindless and rote. Luthuanians were dragged into the ruthless mob to be rent like pigs in a slaughterhouse. It was a horror beyond imagination, but the soldiers of Luthuania were brave, and their training was true. They held off the onslaught with skill. When one man from a company fell, others immediately filled the gap. Their strength lay in their unity and each and every soldier realized this.

  “Step,” commanded Desperous. To his rear the trumpeters tolled. Brum, tum, tum, tum!

  As a unified mass the Luthuanians pressed forward, crushing the foremost carrions into the mire.

  “Step!”

  Spearmen skewered four carrions at a time, using the bodies to press onward. The carrions collapsed into one another, becoming so thickly compacted they could not raise their arms in defense.

  “Step!”

  The carrions began to tumble down the hillside, a rain of broken bodies. The thwack of their sodden carcasses piling atop one another was sickening, but the Luthuanians did not flinch from their duty. Using their feet and spear butts, they crushed the carrions that collected underfoot. It was a ghastly bitter job, but such was the way of the battlefield.

  Desperous grinned wickedly.

  The enemy had made a foolish choice sending the carrions forward in such a rush, and now
all of Serel was littered with their ruin. But that mistake would prove short-lived. The dragoons were reorganizing the mindless mob in preparation for a second assault. Desperous quickly evaluated the situation. Two divisions of reinforcements were advancing from the south. At the foot of Serel the carrions were gathering in clusters, but were still spread thin. They were not yet a unified wall. If Desperous acted quickly he could seize the moment before the reinforcements arrived.

  “Elves of Luthuania, hear my call,” roared Desperous, as he waved his Razorwind aloft. “The enemy stands at our gate. Let us drive them from our land and send them into the chasm of the afterlife.” He pointed his blade toward Luthuania. He suddenly recalled an ancient war cry. “Is moivir osma evoipan, sripin hej!”

  The men answered his call in a unanimous roar that thundered through the valley, reverberating off the walls of Luthuania. Trumpets blared up and down the line, coalescing into a splendid call of challenge.

  “Charge, elves of Luthuania! Leave no one standing! Charge!” called Desperous.

  The Luthuanian army began its advance.

  Carrions bearing pikes flooded to the front of the enemy lines. It was a race against time, but Desperous knew if he sent his men sprinting down the hill they would never be able to maintain the order necessary to press into the enemy. Loyal to their training, the men advanced in an orderly phalanx, cautiously traversing the quagmire of mud and torn bodies that polluted the hillside. A speedy retreat would not be possible. There would be no parlay, no surrender. He was committing his men to victory or death.

  It wasn’t until they had closed half the distance to the carrion horde that Desperous caught eye of something that made his heart stop. Inexplicably, the horde had managed to turn around many of their catapults despite the thick mud. A score or more were aimed dead at his army’s position. Desperous cursed. It was already too late, his men were well into the kill zone.