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

by Lee H. Haywood

  Demetry watched wide-eyed, unable to look away, as the phirops acted upon their bloody instincts. Swords flared, wreathed in flames, and lightning arched the expanse of the hall, sending thunderclaps echoing from the vaulted ceiling. When they were through, the bodies of fourteen dragoons lay torn upon the marble floor. Their blood seeped into the thick crevices between the marble tiles, coursing across the floor like the veins of some stone beast. The phirops stood satisfied with their work. They had waited a long time to exact punishment on the arrogant dragoons. The thought of the massacre that would soon follow seemed to please them even more.

  Luca took up a broken spear haft from one of the downed dragoons and approached the injured general. Waymire’s legs were ruined from the proconsul’s attack. They hung uselessly in his wake as he crawled toward a niche in the wall. He still clutched the Orb of Azure. Its shimmering surface was made dull by his bloody grasp.

  “We’re not so different, you and I,” sneered Luca Marcus as he trailed after the once haughty general.

  “Tyronious will kill you for this!” managed Waymire, his face was maudlin and pitiful.

  Luca Marcus ignored the general’s comment and moved closer. “We have both overcome outstanding struggles.” He tapped the tip of the spear into the floor with each step, letting the general know that his end was drawing near. “We have both stood defiantly before our oppressors and seized victory from the clutches of certain defeat.”

  Waymire arrived to the wall and could go no further.

  “And most importantly, we have both faced the direst of horrors,” continued Luca Marcus. “Loved ones lost, lives untimely drawn short.” Luca draped the blade over the general’s back.

  “Yet despite our similarities, it gives me great satisfaction to be the man who draws a blade across your throat.” Luca Marcus grabbed a handful of Waymire’s hair and yanked his head back, exposing the old man’s neck. For a moment, the eyes of the two men met, and Luca smiled smugly. Then, with twisted pleasure, he drew the steel edge from guard to tip across Waymire’s taut throat.

  With a clank, the Orb slipped to the ground, marred by the dead general’s bloody prints. Luca lifted it up, holding it high upon his fingertips. “We have it, Demetry. We now have the power to change the world.”

  Luca’s pleasure could not be concealed, and from across the hall Demetry looked on nonplussed, for suddenly he saw one danger replaced by another. “The Orb will be used as I see fit,” Demetry reminded the proconsul coolly.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” said Luca Marcus, once again doting. Yet Demetry noted how he held the Orb close to his chest, making no motion to hand it over.

  “He covets what is yours,” observed one voice. “He wishes to usurp your power.”

  “Luca Marcus may be a threat, but only the Old Magic may unlock the Orb’s power,” counseled another. “While Luca may covet the Orb, he may not use it.”

  But before Demetry could make sense of these conflicting opinions, the sound of metal slamming against stone rung through the hall.

  “Put down the Orb,” ordered an oddly calm voice.

  Both Demetry and Luca Marcus turned to discover Tyronious standing at the open door in the eastern wall of the room. He was naked save for a loin cloth, and his body was painted from head to foot in the barbaric script he often wore when going into battle. Tyronious walked slowly and deliberately into the hall. “My patience has come to an end,” said the dragoon. His eyes were narrow, his brow furrowed.

  Luca Marcus waved his hand. The phirops took the cue and formed a circle about the dragoon. They allowed Tyronious to keep moving forward, but held their formation. Each was prepared to strike at the slightest provocation.

  “We have the Orb, Tyronious,” said Luca Marcus, clutching the sphere close to his body. “The dragoons will be purged. There is no longer a place for your treachery among us.”

  “Give the Orb to me,” said Tyronious quietly. With each purposeful step he drew closer, like a lion positioning himself to pounce. His figure seemed to grow in size, looming with menace. Although Demetry knew it was foolish to be afraid, he found himself backing away.

  “You’ve lost, Tyronious,” said Demetry, trying to put forward a strong front. “Waymire exposed you. He told us about your plan to betray us.”

  “Betrayal?” said Tyronious, with a mocking tilt of his head. “Is that all he said?” He shook his head, as if in disbelief. “I am going to do much worse than that, my little whelp. I am going to tear you limb from limb and set your head on a pike at the center of my dominion.”

  “You disgust me,” said Luca Marcus. He spit on the ground. “I have watched you attempt to contaminate and destroy the mind of this youth for far too long.” He motioned to his phirops. “I want him dead.”

  The forward-most phirop gladly drew his scimitar and moved forward for the kill. He never finished his first step.

  Suddenly, and without explanation, the bodies of the six phirops began to shudder violently, as if seized by an invisible force. Their limbs contorted horrifically at every joint, and in a purge of energy, they flew backward through the air. Their twisted forms struck the walls of the tower with a wet smack.

  Demetry felt his body go numb.

  Luca Marcus strode forward with confidence. “I know not what dark magic you possess, but I will bring an end to it soon enough.”

  Luca conjured within the palm of his hand a ball of lightning, which he sent forth with enough power to render stone into dust. But as the searing light neared Tyronious it diverged, punching a hole through the wall of the stone tower.

  “But how...?” was all Luca could manage.

  Tyronious closed the distance to the proconsul in an instant. He ripped the silver Orb from Luca’s grasp and hurled him against the wall.

  Tyronious eyed the sphere for a moment, and then let out a roar of dismay.

  “Demetry, get the Orb from him!” screamed Luca.

  “The Orb?” snarled Tyronious. Wheeling around, he set his wild eyes upon Luca. “You want this damned Orb,” hissed the beast. He gripped Luca’s face in his hand and pulled it close to the sphere.

  “Is this the Orb of your dreams, proconsul?” Tyronious’s anger suddenly grew tenfold. “Is this the Orb that you have sent men to die for? Does this look like it holds the power of the gods within? If you want this cursed thing you can have it.” Rearing back with the orb held in his palm, Tyronious swung it into the back of the proconsul’s head with a force no mortal could possess. So great was the blow, the solid sphere shattered upon impact. Luca Marcus fell limp from the strike, his life ended in an instant.

  For a moment Demetry stood frozen. “Luca...you...you killed him,” he stammered in disbelief.

  Tyronious reared about, his mouth frothing like a rabid beast, and charged.

  “Kill him, kill him now!” screamed the voices.

  Demetry stumbled backward, shocked into action. He frantically unleashed a flurry of defensive spells. It had no effect on the monster. Tyronious clutched Demetry by the neck, his claws hooking into the soft tissue around Demetry’s throat. Demetry sputtered and gasped as he struggled to breathe. But as he looked into the spectral eyes that were now mere inches from his face, the last ounce of fight vanished from his body. He became clay in the dragoon’s hands. Tyronious’s eyes were churning with power, as if a storm brewed within. The threat to Demetry’s dominion was no longer abstract, far beyond the horizon. It had arrived, and in it Demetry saw the unified damnation and hatred of all mankind bound within one soul.

  Tyronious growled, and the warmth of his breath flared against Demetry’s face like the wafting heat of an open flame. “You are bearing witness to the true power of the Jetaees Op’mat unleashed. Your insubordination has come to an end.”

  • • •

  Rancor cradled his father’s head, staring helplessly at the pale face that lay against his lap. Nochman gazed through him, blindly focusing on the ceiling. His exposed chest was stained red with blo
od. Waymire’s sword had left a ragged hole just below Nochman’s rib line and with every draught of breath the wound flowed freely.

  Evelyn had torn open Nochman’s tunic to gain access to the wound, and already she was bloody up to her elbows. She kept swiping aside the slick of blood only for the wound to immediately disappear within a fresh pool. “I need to properly see the wound,” said Evelyn, her voice tinged with a mix of pain and frustration. “I can channel the void, I know I can. But I need a clean look at what I’m working with.” She had made no mention of Waymire’s betrayal since the general had departed; she didn’t have to. Her torment was broadcast plainly upon her face.

  By the gods, Rancor hated this woman. How could she have been so naive? How could she not have seen Waymire’s betrayal coming? Of course, he had done little better. Rancor considered the mob of Capernicans he had let into the city. For every true refugee there was likely a wolf dressed as a sheep. He had no doubt that it was these so-called “refugees” who had opened the gates to the city. He had failed his people as much as anyone. Worse still, he had proven his father right; he was never meant to be high lord. Rancor pinched back the shame welling in his eyes. For now he would have to suppress his inner turmoil. For now only his father’s life mattered.

  Rancor had seen so little death up close in his life. It made the whole scene oddly surreal. Nochman’s skin had gone sallow. The strength that had so long been etched upon his face was now replaced by fear. The old man clutched the jewel hanging around his neck with all his strength, as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.

  “Rancor,” called Nochman in an ever-weakening voice. “Please come close, while there is still time.” He did not seem to see that Rancor was kneeling right in front of him. Rancor looked to Evelyn, but she could only shrug in response. She began to go through the motions of channeling the Sundered Soul.

  “I’m here, Father,” managed Rancor. He grasped Nochman’s hand in his own, directing it to his face. Nochman smiled, having found his son’s cheek. Rancor sensed the tremor in his father’s fingers.

  Rancor dared a glance at Evelyn. She seemed at a loss. Evelyn was frantically etching runes into the air, each one a brilliant display of ephemeral light. Yet the spells appeared to have little or no effect. At best, she was only slowing Nochman’s demise.

  “Waymire...,” began Nochman.

  “Never mind Waymire. He’s gone now. Focus on breathing.”

  “No,” said Nochman shaking his head. “You don’t understand. The orb Waymire took...” He suddenly burst into a violent coughing fit. Evelyn had to force Nochman’s chest against the ground; she motioned for Rancor to do likewise.

  Rancor held Nochman’s shoulders down until the convulsions passed. “Be still for now, Father. Talking will only hurt you.”

  “No time,” managed Nochman with a strained voice. “The orb Waymire took was a fake.”

  Rancor eye’s flared in shock. Almost immediately his mind began to scheme. If the Orb was a fake then the real one could still be used by Evelyn. Luthuania might yet be saved. He looked to Evelyn. She continued on with her task dutifully, not showing the slightest hint that her interest was piqued. Rancor issued a sigh of relief. “The necromancer can still be defeated.”

  “The necromancer is irrelevant, for even if we defeat him, there is one we cannot.”

  Rancor felt a chill come over his body. “What do you mean?”

  “Waymire said the Jetaees Op’mat has returned.”

  Rancor shook his head, not understanding. “I don’t know what that is.” He remembered the general uttering the phrase before he fled, but Rancor hadn’t the slightest clue what it meant.

  He noticed that Evelyn had ceased her witchcraft. Her hands were frozen mid spell above Nochman’s frame. Her eyes blinked in disbelief. “If the Jetaees Op’mat has returned the Weaver has spun our final doom,” said Evelyn breathlessly.

  “Yes,” said Nochman, nodding grimly. “Think back to your schooling, Son, the Jetaees Op’mat. The Wyrm. Waymire said that the Wyrm has returned.”

  “The Wyrm,” cried Rancor in horror.

  Nochman only nodded in response.

  Evelyn’s face tightened, and she returned to her work with unflinching resolve, perhaps finding solace in tending to those things over which she still had control. Something she did caused Nochman to wince. After a moment his body slackened, but the look of agony remained planted firmly upon his face. Rancor knew it was not from his physical ailment. His father’s sworn enemy, a foe whose wrongs he had spent a lifetime trying to right, had returned. Now Nochman lay on his deathbed, helpless to do anything. Rancor reeled in horror.

  “Our enemy has deceived us all this time. The necromancer is a Wyrm!” proclaimed Rancor.

  “No, not the necromancer,” said Nochman. “The demigods cannot bind the souls of creatons. The Wyrm must be another. One of the dragoons, perhaps.”

  Rancor could feel the color fading from his face. “But what could we possibly do against such power?”

  “Nothing,” said Nochman weakly. He pulled his son’s ear close. “Only the Guardian can save us now, Rancor.” His words came out almost as a poem. “Light to dark, life to death. Only the Guardian can stop such wicked ways. Only he can save Laveria.”

  Nochman’s body erupted into a violent spasm. He clutched at the jewel strung from his neck until his hand went white from exertion. It was in this moment that Rancor realized he was shivering. A dire chill had come over the room, and from the corner of his eye he detected the creeping reach of frost working its way across the stone floor. Evelyn was channeling the void.

  He looked to her aghast, but she did not seem to see him. Evelyn was staring greedily at the jewel hanging from Nochman’s neck. Such a simple thing it was; a jewel little larger than a walnut plainly fastened to a silver chain. Rancor had always supposed the cream-colored jewel to be a moonstone. As long as he could remember, his father had worn the necklace as a good luck charm. Rancor had never given it a second thought until now.

  Yet somehow Evelyn had made the connection. Nochman’s talisman was in fact the Orb of Azure, and now she was like a shark drawn to blood. With the Orb in her sights some base instinct seized control of her mind. Her pupils focused to pinpoints, her mouth parted eagerly. Seeing this covetous transformation overcome her, Rancor suddenly realized he no longer wished for Evelyn to possess the Orb. Too much was at stake to trust a Kari. Too much was at stake to let a foe handle their only hope of salvation.

  Still kneeling, Rancor slowly shifted his hand to one of the discarded blades lying nearby. “Evelyn, I need you to take a step back,” said Rancor.

  His words snapped Evelyn from her paralysis, and as if she had lost her mind, she ravenously reached for the jewel. For an instant her fingers came in contact with the stone’s milky surface. There was a flash of white light, and a shuddering boom that rocked the foundation of the tower. Evelyn was flung across the room, her fingers blackened and scorched.

  For a moment Evelyn lay immobile against the wall. Her mouth hung agape and she issued a desperate guttural wail. Rancor used the opportunity to pick up the discarded sword, and he held it in front of his father’s body protectively. Evelyn blinked and her eyes dilated back to normal. Warmth returned to the room. Her gaze shifted from Nochman, to the blade, and then finally out the parted balcony doors. She hung her head between her knees and began to whimper quietly.

  “He’s...he’s here,” whispered Nochman.

  Rancor followed his father’s gaze and fell back in fright.

  A shimmering cloud fluttered in from the porch, pulsating with vibrant colors as it drew near. In a panic, Rancor grabbed at his father’s arm and tried to pull him away. But Nochman suddenly felt as if a great weight lay upon his body. He could not be moved. “Get back!” yelled Rancor at the light. It came closer without wavering.

  Suddenly, the Orb of Azure rose into the air, pulling the silver chain taut against Nochman’s neck. It began to glow a brill
iant blue. The cloud of light pulsated and words floated through the room as if carried by the wind. “Nochman, true Lord of the Elves, I have returned for what is mine.”

  CHAPTER

  XIX

  THE TURNING OF THE TIDE

  Tyronious paced maniacally, growling and sputtering to himself as he went. “Do you want to know the truth?” said Tyronious, his voice emitting from his lips like the hiss of a snake. Demetry didn’t need to hear another word; he had learned everything from those turbulent welling eyes. The unbridled power that loomed within was exposed.

  “I am of the Jetaees Op’mat,” continued the pacing demigod.

  Demetry knew the name well from his studies. The Jetaees Op’mat had once tried to enslave the creaton races. They were the perpetrators of the War of Sundering. They were the eternal enemy of the Guardians. They were the Wyrm.

  A blinding radiance shrouded Tyronious’s figure, like sunbeams permeating through a cloud. His voice bellowed with the power of a god, echoing in the expanse a hundredfold. The gold plating along the walls hummed and boomed as he declared his lineage. “I am Tyronious of Calaban. Son of Tiberius. Last of the Wyserum. I claim dominion over all of Laveria. Bow before your god.”

  Demetry felt his legs buckle involuntarily; one knee and then the next struck the floor. His pants and splendid robe became sodden with the blood of the dead as he lay prostrate before the god. He cast his eyes to the Wyrm medallion hanging from his neck. He felt like such a fool. Demetry had feigned divinity, all the while the real god had been watching, silently biding his time. “You fooled me with your wretched promises,” he croaked.

  “It was your ambition that betrayed you,” said Tyronious matter-of-factly. “You never wanted to help the world. I knew that from the beginning. That’s why I trusted you. You sought that which all men desire — power.”

  “Then tell me, Wyrm, what is your cause? What righteous end would you have for Laveria?” challenged Demetry, still groveling, still lying in a pool of tepid blood.