The Luthuanians sprinted up alongside their leader, and shoulder to shoulder they closed the gap to the awaiting dragoons.
The two grand armies met.
A tremendous crack rent the air as spears split in two. The foremost line of the dragoons were driven into the ground. The Luthuanian army lapped over them, breaking against the blades of the enemy. Chaos ensued. Helms were cloven. Limbs were shorn clean. Armor was shattered. The air rang with the clangor of clashing steel and the cries of men and beasts. In the flurry of snapping wing blades, tearing claws, and cold steel, no soldier was left unmarred.
Set at the center of the field, Desperous fought like a madman. He instilled fear into the hearts of all dragoons unfortunate enough to fall in his path, and urged his men ever onward. Set in the thick of such terrible destruction he shone like a beacon, and time and time again the men rallied upon catching sight of his glistening form. The dragoons began to falter, falling back and pushing over each other to avoid the wrathful spirit. As they parted before him, Desperous spotted the central encampment of the necromancer. It was only a few hundred paces away.
Desperous snarled at the sight and tore into the remaining dragoons that encompassed him. There was the power of the gods behind each stroke. But stronger still was the anger over lost friends. Desperous’s power was unbridled, and not a thing in the world could stand between him and his target. The necromancer would die on this day. Desperous would see to it.
CHAPTER
XV
THE PROCONSUL
“We need to get you out of here,” said Luca Marcus. He grasped a handful of Demetry’s purple cloak and tugged him with a strength unnatural for one so aged. There was an urgency to the proconsul’s step, and Demetry had the uncomfortable feeling Luca’s suggestion was more an order.
“There is not cause for me to fly the scene,” replied Demetry, throwing off Luca’s hand. “Your phirops will hold the enemy.” He directed Luca’s gaze to the north, where only a handful of phirops were fending off an entire Halgan squadron.
“You mistake their power as absolute,” said Luca. “They will grow weak of energy and be overwhelmed in due time. If we do not...”
Demetry stamped his foot. “We are in no danger of losing the battle. I will not leave the field.” His voice had taken on the commanding tone of the king. All around the encampment, heads turned and looked with wonder.
“As you would have it,” said Luca, bowing like a fawning dog. A false gesture, Demetry knew, but the Proconsul was careful to play his part in public. In private, Luca would take on a paternal tone and reprimand Demetry for acting so foolishly.
Demetry was positive he was right on the matter. They had yet to commit more than a third of their carrions to the battle, and the creaton forces were rapidly thinning. Better yet, the gates of the city had inexplicably been cast open. If he ever found out who it was that betrayed the Luthuanians, he would fill the traitor’s arms with so many bags of gold they wouldn’t be able to walk. Victory was now a certainty; it would only be a matter of time before the city fell and the creatons on the field were overwhelmed and defeated. Demetry would not be absent when he solidified his victory over this land, nor would he miss the doling of the spoils.
A part of him hungered for the touch of coin, and he was filled with greed as he imagined the riches locked away within the Luthuanian coffers. Lecherous thoughts entered his mind as he envisioned the maidens who would soon come at his beck and call. He would create his own harem, like the kings of old, and sire a hundred children to lord over every reach of his empire. But his seat would be the highest of all, set atop the pinnacle of the tower of Yasmire. Upon his brow he would wear a circlet of gold and the Orb of Azure would be fitted into his crown, so that all would see that he had become akin to the gods. His belly grumbled with a lustful fire.
“Soon,” whispered Demetry to himself.
“They will all call you king.”
“Upon bended knee?” pressed Demetry, as he chewed nervously at his thumb.
“Upon bended knee,” the voice agreed. “And what more, you will be venerated by your people. The women will swoon when they see you in your resplendent attire. The conquering hero...they will praise you...the savior of Laveria.”
“But only if the dragoons are all slain,” reminded a third.
They all will be, thought Demetry. Every last one of them. Let Korre throw his best men against the might of the Luthuanians. Let the fool dragoons die for bravado and honor. It would be less work later on.
A strident cry rose near the fringe of the palisade that encircled the camp. “They’ve broken through!”
Demetry looked on in shock as a series of rapid explosions erupted in the sides of several undead dragons. Heads split from torsos and black entrails spilled across the earth like writhing snakes. An instant later, a flood of red-cloaked figures came bounding through the wooden stakes of the palisade. Even more startling was the sight of a lone glowing figure at their lead. He hacked through the phirops as if they were mere peasants. Demetry looked to Luca with an inquisitive glance, but the proconsul had no explanation for this phenomenon.
“What in the name of everything holy is this?” cried Demetry, suddenly irate.
“Get to a dragon!” ordered Luca Marcus.
Demetry hesitated, watching in shock as Luca did not heed his own advice. Instead, the proconsul stood stalwart between Demetry and the onslaught, widening his stance like a man girding himself against an oncoming wave. He threw back his fur-hemmed robe, letting it collapse against the filthy earth, and began to stretch his arms and hands.
“Luca?”
“Go,” growled Luca Marcus. Phirops fell in alongside their proconsul, copying his practiced motions.
Seeing no other option, Demetry ran toward the nearest undead dragon. To his rear, there was an explosion, and the air seemed to shudder. A rolling concussion vibrated through the earth. The fell cry of dying men pierced the air. Demetry didn’t look back.
Arriving to the undead dragon, he fumbled with the harness straps; panic was beginning to set in. His mind was ablaze with questions. Who are these creatures fighting alongside the creatons with such ferocity and skill? How did they make it through to this seemingly unassailable position?
Demetry finally located the grip handle on the saddle strapped to the undead dragon’s back. He hoisted his body upward.
“Look out!”
From the corner of his eye, Demetry spied a massive paw swinging at him. Almost instinctively, he threw up a shield of protective warding. It wasn’t enough. The force from the blow lifted him from the saddle and sent him sailing through the air. He crashed into a nearby tent, tearing it from its moorings. He became lost in the fabric. There was a crack to his skull, a screeching whistle, then nothing.
• • •
Luca watched in horror as Demetry’s limp figure plummeted to a stop, tangled within the midst of a collapsed tent. A snarling dragon was cautiously approaching his body. Luca recognized the fabled creature at once. The marble-scaled hide, red as the dusking sky and dappled with black. Teeth as long as a man’s forearm. Wings like a trireme’s sail. It could be none other than Marshal of the Avofew clan, whose size and brute strength were seconded by no living mortal.
The dragon’s muscular frame blocked the injured necromancer from Luca’s view. Marshal was approaching Demetry warily; his head was held at an angle, his maw hung agape, ready to strike if need be. But the dragon had made a fatal mistake not heeding the proconsul to his rear.
It had been years since Luca Marcus had faced an opponent worthy of his true powers, and he savored the opportunity to face Marshal in combat. But he knew he must refrain. Too much was at stake. If Demetry were to be killed, all of Luca’s planning and dreams would die with him. The resurgence of the Order, the destruction of the Elite Royal Guard, the seizure of the Nexus, the ascension of the one true god; all were lifelong dreams. And now with this foe looming between him and his goals, he sa
w no option but to make this quick. A grave dishonor to such a valiant opponent, thought Luca, but he had no other option.
“Fiset majrl!” belted Luca, calling upon the Sundered Soul. His fingers began to tingle, and a torrent of blue light streaked from the tips of his clawed rings, coalescing into a pulsating ribbon that lashed Marshal’s side. The air crackled, warping from the heat. The dragon stumbled as the power overwhelmed him. His muscles began to contort, his legs swayed and buckled. With his last ounce of life, the dragon lurched forward in a vain attempt to smother Demetry with his body. Luca lashed out with everything he had, and one by one the scales on Marshal’s side popped clean off his body in a rain of sizzling flesh. His wings began to smolder and waste away, like a cobweb licked with flame. The dragon reeled on his side, his sinuous neck flopping to the earth with a satisfying thud. His legs kicked spastically a few final thrusts, then the giant’s body became still. Tendrils of smoke trailed into the heavens from his side. He moved no more.
Luca Marcus circled the carcass, finding Demetry tangled in the wreckage of the tent. He cast aside support beams and fabric until Demetry was fully exposed. Demetry’s mouth was agape, his eyes closed. The left side of his head was chafed and already swelling purple and blue. Luca quickly checked Demetry’s pulse. He was relieved to find that Demetry was alive and not beyond repair. “Much still depends upon you, my child,” said Luca, brushing debris from Demetry’s face.
Luca muttered a few word in the ancient tongue, casting a quick spell of healing. With a grunt, he hoisted Demetry’s unconscious frame onto his shoulder. He quickly surmised that staying on the field of battle was no longer an option. The encampment was overrun with lumani, and where they were, the Guardian would not be far behind. An unfortunate turn of events, thought Luca. It was no longer safe to have Demetry exposed. He hobbled toward the nearest undead dragon.
“You are but one of my agents of chaos,” said Luca, as he heaved Demetry atop the saddle and quickly fastened him in place with a binding strap. Let the Guardian come, thought Luca. Let the old fool sow the seeds of madness. Let the Blackheart take root. Envy, greed, and betrayal will run rampant. Brother will turn against brother, mother against daughter, father against son. Let uncertainty grow. He smiled wanly. Order dictated with an iron fist is always most welcome when chaos reigns supreme.
Luca was about to mount the saddle himself when the nearby clank of metal interrupted his train of thought.
“Halt!” commanded a heavily accented voice.
Much to his displeasure, a dozen or so lumani were hemming him in with weapons drawn. “Hand over the necromancer, old man” growled a woman, apparently their leader. A deadly mistake to consider him old and feeble. Luca didn’t give them a second to consider their error. With a shudder he unleashed a pulse of energy, striking the lumani leader’s arm off at the elbow. The woman stared in disbelief at her dismembered arm. The charred stump still gripped the haft of her blade.
“A gift from the Shadow,” shouted Luca Marcus mockingly. He kicked his heels, and his foul ride uncoiled its rotten wings and took flight, slowly circling over the battlefield in an ever-skyward arch. “Phirops, to the Nexus!” belted the proconsul. All across the valley undead dragons followed in his wake, until a great train of death trailed behind him. Luca grinned, finding himself oddly pleased with how things had worked out.
CHAPTER
XVI
THE ORB
Evelyn lusted for the touch of the Orb. She wondered if it would be hot like the living fire with which her mother forced her to practice. Probably not. The orb would be cool as porcelain until unlocked, then the power of a thousand suns would come rushing out, a heat so severe it could not be perceived. How can you hold light without being burned, thought Evelyn. “With the abyss,” she whispered in reply.
She watched Nochman slowly hobble into the chamber from the balcony. Rancor had his elbow hooped through the crook of his father’s arm, gently guiding him back into the room. But upon reaching the threshold, Nochman would go no further. He nodded to no one in particular. “I will give up the Orb,” he muttered quietly, almost to himself.
Evelyn’s heart fluttered at the prospect. She had waited her entire life to hear those words. Yet Nochman still made no motion to reveal the Orb’s location. Instead, he remained near the door, as if lost in thought. He ran his hand over his ashen brow and matted hair, slowly shaking his head in disappointment. Why the reservation? For a moment Evelyn’s gut tightened; had he figured her out?
“Please, Lord Nochman,” began Evelyn, trying her best to conceal her urgency. “The city is being overrun. It is now or never.”
Across the room, Waymire was pacing back and forth like a caged animal, chewing at his lip impatiently. The reek of booze trailed his every step. Evelyn had smelled it on his breath the second he came calling at her door. It was time to free Rancor from prison and retrieve the Orb, yet Waymire had shown up stumbling drunk. She understood the need for a drink to build courage, but Waymire was well beyond that point. His mood was rapidly swinging between anger and elation. She had been tempted to call off the rescue and delay for another day. But what other day? Luthuania was destined to fall before the day was through, and if Nochman did not reveal the whereabouts of the Orb to them, he would be forced to reveal it to someone else. Then it would be out of reach forever.
Coming to a halt beside Nochman’s desk, Waymire thwacked the sheathed blade of his sword against the wooden leg, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Harrumph,” called Waymire, clearing his throat loudly. Nochman shifted his dim eyes upon the general. “If the enemy is to achieve victory today, Lord Nochman, do not let it be the ultimate victory. Do not let the necromancer have what he seeks most.”
Nochman shuddered as if roused from a slumber, and slowly shifted his all-seeing eyes from one member of the entourage to the next. “Is the necromancer so different from any of us, General Waymire? Are we not all guilty of being drawn by the allure of power?”
“The Orb, Father,” said Rancor, his voice flat and oddly tempered. He was clearly struggling to hide his frustration. “We haven’t time for one of your lectures.”
“Oh, I think we have time for one more,” said the aged elf dismissively. He walked over to a cupboard near one of Waymire’s guards and began to go through the contents. “Power is a double-edged sword. You’ll betray for it, you’ll murder for it. And when time comes, you’ll die for it.” He shook his head sadly. “The treachery of this concept weighs heavy on the souls of many.
“If Luthuania is to fall to such greed and avarice, then it is my duty to see that all does not go to ruin. Laveria is a wide land, and there will be bastions of safety where stalwarts of the old guard will lie in wait and bide their time. If the necromancer can tap the power of the Orb, it must be hidden away, so that one day those stalwarts might rise again and have a chance of succeeding where we have failed.”
“Very well,” said Waymire. “But please, fetch it now, so we can take it from here unseen. Already there are undead dragons circling the city. If we do not act soon, we will never be able to take it from here in secret.”
Nochman’s eyes narrowed sternly on the Capernican. “General Waymire, you are a man of the Elite Royal Guard. I have never trusted the guardsmen. You need to leave. My son and I will see this through.”
Waymire’s eyes flared in response, and as if some unseen signal had been given, Waymire and his guardsmen all reached for their blades at once.
Evelyn’s stomach tied in a knot. “No!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. But it was too late, treachery had already been set in motion.
Nochman lunged to his left, and with a flick of his wrist he dealt the soldier a slashing blow to the jugular before the man’s blade had cleared his scabbard. Rearing back, Nochman revealed a short blade cupped in the palm of his hand. The man gurgled and choked on his own blood, clasping at his neck in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding. In a blur Nochman went after the next soldier, duc
king the man’s blade with ease. Nochman struck the man deep, just below the armpit. A fatal wound, without doubt.
Collecting up the dying soldier’s sword, Nochman made as to turn on Waymire but his efforts were drawn short by the general’s gruff voice.
“Drop the blade, or I’ll put my sword through your son’s throat!”
Evelyn’s frame was shaking, her body comprehending the threat well before her mind made sense of what was happening.
Rancor was pinned to the wall by Waymire’s outstretched sword, the honed tip set precariously to the soft flesh of his neck. Rancor swallowed hard, the bite of steel causing a droplet of blood to go running down the sword’s fuller.
Nochman hesitated, holding his ground as he sized up the situation. There was no winning this fight. With a scowl of defeat he dropped his blade. It clattered loudly against the stone floor.
“You’re playing by my rules now,” hissed Waymire belligerently.
“What are you doing?” screamed Evelyn. She felt as if her knees were going to give out, and she had to steady herself by grabbing the railing of the nearby bed. “Put down your sword, general.”
“My sweet lass, please be quiet. It’s easier this way.” Waymire’s voice cracked, and he shifted his eyes askance. His lips quivered, betraying his doubts. For a second Evelyn saw his fingers loosen about the hilt of his sword. One finger, then two, then three. He gave his head a vigorous shake, gaining mastery of his grief. His grip stiffened with certainty. “I was trying to be civil, so that no one would needlessly be hurt.” He glared at Nochman to emphasize the point. “But if you try to trick me again, I swear on everything I hold dear, I will take your son apart limb by limb.”
“You never were a clever one, Waymire,” said Nochman. “I had my suspicions about you all along.”
“Did you?” growled Waymire.
“You’ve chosen the coward’s path.”
“We’ll see who’s squealing like a coward in a minute.” Waymire looked sternly at Rancor and barked out a command. “Put your arm out.”
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 15
