Howling out in pain, the phirop clutched his shattered arm and looked upon his attacker with bewilderment. Without hesitation, Dolum raised the maul high above his head and brought it down as if he were hammering a stake into the earth. The phirop fell with a crushed skull. Dolum’s left hand throbbed happily as he gripped the coarse ironshod handle.
“Good, Dolum,” managed Byron. “Very good.”
This snapped Dolum from his daze. He crouched at Byron’s side and frantically unclasped the bindings of his uncle’s breastplate. The cut ran squarely across Byron’s chest, as if he were scored with a razor. Dolum pressed his hands against the wound, momentarily stemming the surge of blood. All around him the dwarves gathered, but they were too taken aback to act. “Bring me a stretcher!” barked Dolum.
His brusque order brought many of the men out of their stupor, and a stretcher was quickly improvised from two spears. Byron was hoisted atop.
He was pale, yet his lips were parted in a smile. “Dolum,” called out the king in a failing voice. “What a warrior you have become. Your father would be so proud of you.”
Dolum reached out, gripping his uncle’s arm. “Your wounds are too serious to ignore. We’re going to get you to a healer.”
Byron nodded, unable to deny the graveness of his injuries. “Lead these men, Dolum. Wipe this foul scum from the earth. The field is yours.”
For a moment Dolum stood there dumbfounded. The very concept of him leading the Halgan army made his head spin. He could think of a dozen dwarves present on this very field more worthy of the position.
“Surely Captain Braddock is a more suitable candidate,” cried Dolum, but Byron was gone, the stretcher bearers already in flight.
Immediately, a barrage of soldiers rushed forward demanding to know what to do next.
“We are lost,” cried one soldier. “Let us flee from here.”
There was a flurry of approval from the masses.
“Aye,” cried another. “Let the elves fend for themselves.”
“This is the human’s war, not ours.”
A few were emboldened by the anonymity of the throng and began to request a hasty retreat. Others shouted the cowards down, spouting slurs and challenges. Dolum’s eyes shot from one faction to the next. I’m thirty seconds into my first command and I’m already losing control. If he didn’t quell this mutiny now, the Halgan army would collapse. He did the one thing that his father had emphasized above all others; he yelled louder than everyone else.
“Stiffen your lips, you damned cowards!” roared Dolum in a voice that surprised even himself.
Immediately, all around him fell silent.
“You call yourselves dwarves of Halgath?” mocked Dolum, summoning within himself the spirit of his father.
“We’re the bravest of the brave!” yelled out a soldier to his rear.
“Then prove it,” challenged Dolum, wheeling around on the speaker. “Fight to keep your children out of chains. Fight for a Halgath that once was, and once again may be. Fight for Luthuania, our ally, and our friend. Moreover, fight for Laveria. For we do not have a second home, and if this one falls, we will have only the afterlife to welcome us.”
“For Laveria,” cried Captain Braddock, echoing Dolum’s sentiment. He pumped his sword overhead, and all about them the Halgan masses joined the chant.
Dolum let out a sigh, crisis averted.
“But, my lan,” shouted a soldier with an air of urgency.
It took Dolum a moment to realize the soldier was addressing him. “What is it?”
“Look to Petrel, Your Grace.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Dolum over the din of chanting dwarfs. He had a clear line of sight to Petrel Hill and saw nothing.
“No, Your Grace” said the soldier pointing. “Up there.”
Dolum followed the soldier’s quivering finger to the crest of the hill. What he saw there made his heart drop and resolve waver.
“Blessed few be our moments,” murmured Dolum in a woeful voice, as he beheld the writhing host that was collecting atop the hill. He knew in that instant, all hope was lost.
• • •
Thatcher led his small army of dragons forward at a blinding pace. They had long since plunged over the mountainous crag walls of the Eng range, and the Nexus now loomed before them. From a distance he spied a black stain wreathing the city. But as they drew near, the hideous sight took shape; it was a carrion host equal to the army besieging Luthuania. Thatcher shuddered at the sight. If the creatons on the field were somehow victorious this would be their reward; a hopeless endeavor, he knew. It was to him and his dragon companions to win the war.
As they entered the air space above the Nexus, a few of the elders began to bay and roar like trumpeters heralding forth a vanquishing army. In the city below, heads apprehensively peeked from windows, and figures began to collect on rooftops and within gardened atriums. They gathered to see what the Fates had in store for their city. But the enemy noted their arrival as well. One by one the undead dragons wrapped around the Tower of Yasmire began to break free from their roosts. The blackened figures wheeled about the pinnacle of the tower, like carrion birds circling a prize.
A whistle pierced the air. Thatcher recognized it with uncomfortable familiarity. A few of the undead dragons broke from the pack and turned on a course to intercept Thatcher and his companions. Thatcher watched the abominations draw near with growing revulsion. These were the deceased kin of his mother’s brood. He wanted to purify their bodies, free them of the necromancer’s damnable curse. With that thought came a wellspring of molten fire in the depths of Thatcher’s throat. He unleashed a fury upon the first undead he came upon. Wings were reduced to ash, and the body burst asunder in a bath of flame. All about him, the elders did likewise, and the bodies of the undead plummeted in smoldering ruin upon the city below.
Still, the majority of the undead dragons continued to swarm about the white face of the tower. They numbered in the dozens, and like hornets protecting their hive, they sprung en masse on any who drew near. Seeing that the wall of awaiting enemies would be difficult to penetrate, Thatcher yelled out to the others. “I’ll lead the way, single file, follow in my wake.”
With an ear-splitting roar, Thatcher dove in, shattering through the dense spiral of wings, teeth, and claws. He slammed through the undead mostly unscathed, and suddenly found himself perched upon a balcony looking into a massive hall. He had hardly a moment to scamper aside before another dragon came bursting in behind him. In total, nine gained entrance to the tower before the spiraling swarm closed ranks and allowed no further passage.
The tower’s interior was dark. Thatcher blindly groped his way forward, not waiting for his eyes to adjust. Shapes gradually emerged from the shadows. The room was many times larger than the grandest amphitheater he had ever seen. This is the Gods’ Choir, he realized. Gold plates overlaid the perimeter walls; each rectangular slab was slanted at an obtuse angle. All seemed designed to throw and amplify sound. Even the rap of his claws and the draw of his breath echoed in the expanse. He reveled in the splendor of the Guardians’ devices.
His moment of wonder was brief.
The disquieting stench of death hung heavy on the air. The grand hall had been the site of a terrible slaughter. Over a dozen bodies lay butchered across the floor. Only one figure remained standing in the center of it all, his feet pooled in blood. Thatcher immediately recognized the purple-robed figure; it was the same person he had seen holding up the iron gate at New Halgath.
Although a hood shielded the necromancer’s eyes, it was clear that he was eyeing the dragons as they slowly filed into the cavernous space. The dragons were careful to block each passage of escape with their bodies.
“Look at me, necromancer,” growled Thatcher.
The necromancer lifted his head, revealing a youthful face beneath the brim of the hood.
“You are the dragon who has rallied the creatons and sent so many needlessly to
their graves,” said the necromancer, goading Thatcher. “I will gladly grant you a lordship for bolstering the ranks of my carrions.”
Thatcher smashed his fist into the floor, sending a thunderous boom echoing through the expanse. “Hold your wicked tongue or I’ll rip it from your face!” He bared his teeth savagely.
“Ah, there is the animal spirit that resides within every dragon’s soul!” exclaimed the necromancer. “I sensed the same rage within your mother when I killed her. Your father, I fear was more craven. The old driveling fool fled. When pushed to the test will you do the same?” The necromancer began to pace before Thatcher, allowing his feet to slosh through the pool of blood. He was careful to remain just beyond the reach of Thatcher’s coiled neck.
“You’re not the one who killed Dain Baelac,” hissed one of the elders. “It was your pet dragoon.”
“Ah yes,” said the necromancer, as if reveling in the memory. “Tyronious, my most loyal servant.”
An unsettling murmur rose amongst the gathered dragons.
Thatcher had not heard the dragoon’s name before; its sudden mention made him uneasy. A dragoon was not the first to bear that name. It was possessed by another, far fouler and more treacherous.
Grinning like a serpent, the necromancer cast back his hood, and Thatcher beheld a flicker of light within the baleful globes of his eyes. They had misjudged this foe all along, Thatcher realized too late. The fire in his stomach turned to ice. They had walked into a trap.
CHAPTER
XVIII
THE JETAEES OP’MAT
Demetry awoke to find himself staring laterally across a marble floor. The frigid touch of the stone against his exposed skin caused him to shiver. Gingerly, he sat himself upright, fighting a stiffening ache that coursed through his body. He panned over his surroundings, immediately recognizing the location. He was within the Gods’ Choir, the topmost floor of Yasmire Tower. High above, the steeple ceiling disappeared to a point. It was within this grand hall that the Guardians once sang their enchantments. Four balconies flanked the central chamber, each set down a lengthy nave. Demetry was not surprised to find Luca Marcus down the nearest. The proconsul was accompanied by half a dozen phirops.
“You’re injured and exhausted.” Joshua’s voice rang shrilly within the recesses of Demetry’s mind. “But showing weakness now might get you killed. Stand up!”
Demetry tried to comply, but his legs felt as if they were cast in lead. His head throbbed. Abrasions and bruises covered the left side of his body.
Sensing that Demetry had awoken, Luca Marcus bustled toward him, his face pursed with concern. “The Shadow be praised,” said the proconsul, pointing to the heavens. “I feared the worst. You have been unconscious for some time.”
“What happened?” asked Demetry. He rubbed his forehead and discovered there was a welt there the size of a small egg.
“You were attacked by a dragon.”
Demetry vaguely remembered the giant foe approaching, but everything after that was a blank.
“Do you feel well enough to stand?” asked Luca. The proconsul offered a helping hand, the rings of his hand glistened like the teeth of a hunter’s snare.
“He has ignored your directions,” reminded Johan. “When a king commands, his vassals are compelled to obey, yet Luca Marcus has not. He has taken you from the protection of your army. Why is that?”
Demetry’s bile rose at Luca’s insolence, and he angrily dismissed the offered hand, managing to gather his feet on his own. He tottered uneasily, struggling to gain his balance. He found his vision twisted with vertigo, and Luca’s face appeared to droop like a wax sculpture left out in the sun. “Why have you brought me here?” demanded Demetry, mimicking Johan’s authoritative tone.
“You were injured. The enemy had overrun the encampment.”
Demetry eyed the proconsul with discontent. “It would seem to me that I was revived quickly enough.”
“This time, yes,” said Luca, sounding much like a chiding parent. “But your safety is of utmost importance. You were exposed. I could not risk your health deteriorating. I did the only sensible thing.”
“It was foolish of you,” snapped Demetry. “You have deprived me of what is mine. As we speak the armies of Laveria are being driven to ruin by my legions. Yet here I stand, leagues away, not to be present at the moment of my victory.”
“There will be time enough for you to gloat over the corpses of your enemies,” said Luca. He spit in contempt. “Be glad that I care for you so. Not all within this alliance would have been so forthcoming with aid.”
Despite the chorus of contrary whispers in his mind, Demetry heard the truth in the proconsul’s words. He clasped his pounding head, trying to ward off the nausea he felt rippling through his frame. “You need to find refuge and seclusion within your apartment. No one should see you in such a weakened state.” Demetry nodded in agreement.
“I’m going to retire to my room,” said Demetry, as he began toward the stairwell.
Luca looked pleased by this decision. “I will send a healer and servants to tend to you.”
Demetry absentmindedly waved the offer off. He was about to descend the stairs when a noise down one of the naves caught his attention. It was the boisterous laugh of a man, something very out of character for the phirops.
He turned and looked at Luca Marcus. “One of your phirops?”
Luca Marcus shook his head doubtfully.
Rounding the bend was an elderly man using a sheathed sword as a cane. Heavily armed dragoons were set on either side of him, and another dozen followed in his wake. Demetry did not recognize the man, but in all truth he hardly gave him more than a passing glance. His eyes were drawn to the shimmering sphere the man was clutching like a prize.
All of Demetry’s anger at Tyronious suddenly lifted. For once even the voices were silenced by their respective awe. Somehow Tyronious had managed to seize the Orb of Azure. The surge of adrenaline caused Demetry to feel lightheaded. His power was now absolute. The war was won.
“The Orb,” cried Demetry in amazement. “You have the Orb.” He stepped from the shadows of the stairwell. All thoughts of his aching head disappeared. He could think only of the Orb.
The man held back. He was not listening to Demetry. Instead his eyes were narrowed on Luca Marcus. “The proconsul,” hissed the man through his teeth.
“General Waymire,” said Luca with a grin.
“Keep moving, General,” said one of the dragoon guides. It was clear they had not expected to encounter the two magics upon their arrival at the tower.
“No,” shouted Luca. “That man is not to take a step further until he has handed over what is within his grasp.”
The dragoon turned, his gaze was stern. “We are under orders to take General Waymire directly to Sire Tyronious.”
“Tyronious is not the lord of this hall,” said Demetry. “I give the orders, and you will do as I say. Bring it to me.”
Waymire laughed haughtily at the remark. “I’m sure Tyronious will be thoroughly entertained by your ambitions for power, but I think it is time you learn your place in this world.”
Luca moved forward, infuriated by the general’s insolence. “I don’t know what deal you have made with the dragoons, but understand that it has been in folly. You have ventured somewhere you should not have come.”
“You don’t know, do you?” said Waymire, almost gleefully. A smile slowly spread across his face. “Tyronious deceived you, and your purpose has been spent.”
Waymire approached Demetry, clearly emboldened by the orb he held in his hand. “You are naught but vile worthless scum, Lord Necromancer, King of the Dead. The people of Laveria are ready for their salvation. I will be the one who rescues the people from the brink of destruction. I will be the one who heralds forth a new era.” He drew close, brazenly staring into Demetry’s eyes. “And you, Demetry, will lie subordinate, hidden away in some dark place until a monster is needed. All this will be don
e with obedience or your life will be duly ended. Such is Tyronious’s will.”
Half a dozen screaming voices vomited up their opinions all at once within Demetry’s mind. He flinched from the overstimulation, struggling to hold the general’s gaze. “Who are you, man of a ruined kingdom, to come before me with such audacity?” hissed Demetry, trying to sound strong when he suddenly felt so uncertain.
Waymire whispered so only Demetry could hear his words. “How foolish you are. I almost pity you. There will be much you learn in the next few hours.”
Demetry’s lip quivered with fury.
“Get your wicked tongue away from him this instant,” said Luca Marcus in a low and dangerous voice.
Waymire wheeled around on Luca Marcus and eyed him with intense hatred. “You, Luca Marcus, will be the greatest reward of all. When Tyronious is done with you...” He closed his eyes as if savoring the thought. “Mercy will not be forthcoming.”
A pair of the dragoon guards rushed forward and began to pull Waymire away.
“We’re going now,” growled one.
Waymire resisted for a moment and then let himself be guided away. He didn’t make it far.
Luca, enraged past the point of return, acted upon his savage instincts. He needed blood. Taking a few paces forward, he swung out his arm, unleashing a wave of dazzling blue light from the tips of his fingers. It streaked across the room smashing through Waymire’s legs. With his back turned, the bewildered general never saw it coming. He collapsed to the ground howling in pain.
“No, Waymire, it will be you who pleads for mercy,” said the enraged proconsul.
The dragoons rushed forward, setting a wall of spears around the injured general. Their wing blades twitched with anticipation.
“Stand down, Luca!” growled the dragoon commander.
Luca paid the dragoon no notice and turned to his eager phirops. “Leave the general alone, kill the rest.”
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 17
