“Laveria was to be shaped by the will of the Wyrm, but my brethren were unjustly slaughtered by the Guardians,” explained the Wyrm. “In times of old, when there were triumphs, they were our triumphs, and when there was folly and devastation, that, too, was our making.” His lip curled with disgust. “It is our right to rule, not some lowly caste of creatons. What has been gained in the past few decades has been a mockery of our plan. The lesser races have acted as pretenders, wielding power that was never theirs to possess.”
“Then you mean to destroy all that has been accomplished for revenge?” Demetry heard himself say the words, but he knew in his heart he was truly no different.
Tyronious smiled smugly, as if he could read Demetry’s thoughts. He reached down, patting Demetry on the head in a patronizing manner. “As a man cannot take revenge on a dog, I cannot take revenge on your kind. I can teach, I can aid, and I can punish if need be. But what revenge can I take on something so far beneath me? No, Demetry, this is about righting the order of things.”
On the other side of the chamber lay the brutalized figure of Luca Marcus. Here was a man who had treated Demetry as a son. A man who had respected him as an equal, yet taught him as a teacher. A man who had truly cared for Demetry and for a cause. Then he looked to Tyronious. Demetry saw nothing but hopelessness in the Wyrm’s hideous face.
Dread settled into Demetry’s heart and he languished in despair. For the first time since he had raised Joshua from the dead Demetry felt utterly alone. It was then that a startling realization tore through his mind. The voices. They had gone silent.
• • •
“Into line!” yelled Dolum with all urgency. “Face Petrel. Spear bearers to the front. Move!”
The bravery Dolum had revitalized within the hearts of his men had turned to fear the instant they saw the enemy that was gathering atop the hill. He knew as well as any this could only mean their doom.
“We must run!” cried out a soldier. “We...”
Captain Braddock smacked the soldier across the mouth before he could utter one more mutinous word. He patted the hilt of his sword. “I recommend you listen to your lan.”
“We hold the line. We die here with honor!” snapped Dolum, pointing to the ground to emphasize the point. Casting his gaze over the writhing hillside, he knew it was all they could do.
Upon Petrel’s crest was an enemy so great in size Dolum could not fathom their number. The goblin horde had arrived flying high the banner of the Wyrm. They had armed themselves with the arsenal of the Ravor garrison and were arrayed in rusted mail and equipped with tarnished swords and warped spears. They had defiled all with garish war paint the color of blood; or perhaps it truly was blood. Dolum shuddered at the thought.
Dolum ran down the line hustling his men into position. “Hold your spears high! Catch them in full stride!” He knew he hadn’t enough men in his command to hold off this new enemy. Much of the Halgan army was still engaged to the south. But live or die, he would see that the enemy was held here, even if only for a while. They would give the others time to prepare. In his death, others might be saved. He was resigned to this fate. But it was in this moment of doom that a shimmering hope emerged.
As if a dream being fulfilled, Dolum watched in wonder as Desperous pressed through the chaos of war with a division of lumani in his wake. The stout soldiers arrayed themselves before the Halgan lines with spears twice the height of a man at hand.
“Desperous, you’re...”
“Glowing, I know,” said Desperous dismissively. “A gift from Yansarian.” He gestured to the stone hanging around his neck from which the light emitted. He eyed the goblin swarm, sizing them up. “The Capernican and Luthuanian ranks have the carrions held up to the south. Your kaziaks are pressing the dragoons to the east. That leaves us to deal with this mess.”
“What can we do?” asked Dolum.
“Die with honor,” was Desperous’s response. He heaved up a spear and swung it aloft. In a booming voice, Desperous addressed all who were flocked around him. “Children of Laveria, victory is within our grasp! Do not allow this enemy to take the field. Let the ground run red with the blood of the Wyrm’s spawn!”
Revitalized by Desperous’s war cry, the Halgan ranks cheered loudly and fell in alongside the lumani.
Dolum gave Desperous a faithful nod. “To the bloody end, friend.”
“To the bloody end.”
• • •
Tyronious eyed Waymire’s body with frustration. The old man’s legs were bent backward at the knee, his throat parted from ear to ear. Tyronious could not believe the general had been so foolish. He had offered the man the world; all he had to do was accomplish one simple task. Yet Waymire’s incompetence had won, and he had failed, bringing Tyronious a useless artifact. Worse still, he was now dead.
Tyronious couldn’t help but feel that Fate was teasing him. Here he was, standing within one of the greatest weapons the world had ever known, yet he was no closer to accomplishing his plan than he was at the start. He stroked the gold-veneered wall of the chamber, finding it smooth as glass. How I could make this tower sing if only I had the Orb.
The death of Waymire was an unfortunate turn of events. Tyronious had planned to utilize the Capernican army as an occupying force in Luthuania if Waymire had failed to find the Orb. But that option had died with the general. The men of Caper were leaderless and no longer under the influence of Tyronious’s will. He would be forced to rely on Demetry. Where persuasion had worked in the past, force would have to suffice.
“Your task is not yet through,” said Tyronious, turning to Demetry. “I still promise you all of the powers I granted you from the start. But you must understand the situation has changed.”
Demetry didn’t say a word in response. He was slouched against the wall. His eyes had become vague and distant.
“I must find the Orb of Azure,” continued Tyronious. “And you are going to help me do this.”
“I could lay down my armies,” hissed Demetry, growing bold. “I could end all of this now. Without my carrions you would never find the Orb.”
Tyronious had heard enough. In a blur he crossed the room and slammed Demetry into the wall. Tyronious ripped the medallion from Demetry’s neck and pressed it into the necromancer’s forehead. The medallion turned white hot causing Demetry’s skin to bubble and sizzle. He screamed in agony, a wretched, wailing cry. The smell of burning flesh hung heavy on the air.
Still holding the burning brand firmly to the necromancer’s flesh, Tyronious hissed out the truth. “This medallion you have so faithfully held all this time is not what you think it is. It’s a Jeta Stone. It has acted as a conduit between us. The ungodly power you have wielded has been at my discretion, and I can take it away in an instant.”
Suddenly, a muffled explosion resounded outside, drawing Tyronious’s attention to the balcony. He reared back, tearing the fiery stone from Demetry’s seared flesh. The mark of the Wyrm had been branded upon Demetry’s forehead, but Tyronious was paying no attention to that. The sound outside could only mean one thing. Leaving the whimpering necromancer where he lay, Tyronious ran to the nearest balcony and leaned out over the railing, straining to catch sight of what was causing the commotion. His eyes narrowed. The dragons had followed Demetry back to the Nexus.
He returned to the main chamber and halted in shock.
Demetry’s hand was held aloft, glowing a faint hint of blue. Upon hearing Tyronious enter the hall he shifted his eyes upon the dragoon. Demetry’s teeth parted in a snarl, like a bear protecting its cub. It was then that Tyronious noticed Demetry was kneeling beside the body of Luca Marcus. He had raised the proconsul as a wraith.
Luca Marcus awoke with a wretched scream. Hands that did not seem to know how to operate pawed frantically at the hole in the back of his head. “What,” was all the proconsul could manage. “What, what, what...”
Without a second thought, Tyronious lifted the proconsul by the nape of his neck,
holding the writhing body at arm’s length as if it were a plaguer.
“No!” screamed Demetry. His voice was like the guttural cry of a dying animal. He pawed desperately at Tyronious, casting a few inept spells in an attempt to halt him from doing what needed to be done.
Tyronious jostled the necromancer aside with the blunt edge of his wing blade, and carried Luca Marcus to the nearest balcony. He cast Luca Marcus from the tower. Demetry almost threw himself over the railing in pursuit. He wailed pitifully.
Tyronious gripped Demetry by the scruff of his collar and dragged him toward the stairwell. “Do not attempt to cheat me,” roared the Wyrm, gnashing his beak only inches from Demetry’s blistered face. “The dragons approach as we speak. In a matter of moments they will enter this tower with one purpose. They are here to kill you, Demetry. I ought to let them do it.” He shoved Demetry into the stairwell and tossed the bewildered necromancer the Jeta Stone. “Hide, but do not stray from me, because I will find you.”
“But...,” was the only word Demetry could manage before Tyronious slammed the metallic gates to the stairwell shut. The sound reverberated throughout the cavernous room, amplifying brilliantly off of the perfectly crafted temple walls. When the reverberating din finally settled, Tyronious heard the heavy clack of claws against marble. The dragons had arrived.
CHAPTER
XX
GODS AND MONSTERS
Thatcher had to swallow his fear. Before him the false necromancer sloshed through the blood of his victims in an almost gleeful manner. He slowly circled the perimeter created by the host of dragons, like an animal checking the bars of his cage for any weakness. There was no semblance of worry on the man’s face; and why should there be? They had not trapped the necromancer as they had supposed; they had trapped a god, and a god cannot be trapped.
A part of Thatcher wanted to accept the inevitable and pay due obeisance to the Wyrm. Defeat was a certainty if they challenged the god to combat. Yet another part of him, the part that demanded justice for the murder of his mother and the torment of his father, screamed that he must fight.
“Reveal yourself, shape shifter,” growled Thatcher, his true base instinct winning over. Fire dripped from his lip, cascading across the floor in flashes of yellow light.
The false necromancer sneered. Suddenly, his body burst into a nebulous cloud of swirling fog. It coalesced almost immediately, taking the form of a dragoon with painted flesh. “Or perhaps you would appreciate the image of my Calabanesi brethren,” hissed Tyronious. His body once again shifted to shadow, this time assuming the shape of a man with feathered wings sprouting from each shoulder. The feathers were as black as onyx, and the light in the room seemed to wane in their presence.
“The Secutor of Calaban,” said one of the Avofew elders knowingly. “Your faces are too numerous to count. Your betrayals too many to know.”
Tyronious’s head snapped toward his accuser. His face suddenly took on the visage of a kindly old man with sunken eyes wreathed in black. “You would make me out to be a monster, not fit for this civilized world,” said Tyronious in an aged voice to match his face. “But know this, I am the bulwark that keeps the civilized world afloat. In time, you will know me as your savior.”
“You’re no god of mine,” countered Thatcher. “And you will never have my allegiance.” But even as he said this, he noted the waver in the eyes of his comrades. Hopelessness coupled with bombastic appeal had a way of swaying minds.
“A faulty choice,” said Tyronious. He smiled affably, slowly shifting his gaze from one elder to the next as he entreated them to reconsider. “But that is only the opinion of one voice, and I see many gathered here. Any who step forward now will have a seat beside my throne. I will give you the world. I have no use for it.”
“You would have the creatons be slaves,” challenged Thatcher.
“I will give them paradise,” hissed Tyronious.
“A paradise devoid of will.”
“But paradise all the same!” roared Tyronious. His voice reverberated throughout the tower, crescendoing to a thunderous boom. “Creatons are incapable of understanding the gifts that they have. Their fleeting lives are far too short for vile cause and bloody wars, yet they live only for these affairs. So I will show them the true fruits of their efforts. They wish for bountiful conquest, I will show them their motherland in ashes. They pine for power, I will bind them in chains and teach them the feel of the scornful tip of a lash.” His eyes shifted wildly about the room. “And only when they have fallen prostrate to the ground, when they truly see that all is lost, that they have squandered this gift of life, then and only then will salvation be granted. They will learn that there is but one deliverance from suffering, and it is through me.”
The silence that ensued was every bit as loud as the Wyrm’s harangue. Tyronious was revealed for the vile despot he truly was. Thatcher shifted his glance from dragon to dragon. Their faces were stiff, their hearts hardened with resolve. There was no other choice but to fight.
Thatcher sighed with resignation. It was better to die with honor than on bended knee. “Thus we settle the battle of our times. Righteous against tyrant, mortal against god.” Thatcher charged the Wyrm.
With a blood-curdling scream, Tyronious moved to receive him. The pinions of his feathered wings suddenly turned to daggers, and he scored Thatcher’s body from cheek to collarbone, narrowly missing the veins that ran the length of his neck. Thatcher staggered backward, realizing he was sorely outclassed. The Wyrm leapt again, his stroke set to hew Thatcher’s neck in two. But as he spun mid-air, like a top set to flight, something miraculous happened.
A beam of light split the void, striking the Wyrm in the stomach. Tyronious crumpled under the force, his head pressed to his toes, and he shot backward through the air, projected by the beam at a speed so great the eye could hardly follow. He cleared the cavernous space of the grand hall in an instant and smashed into the far wall. There was a crack, and then the entire eastern portion of the steeple began to shudder; with a heavy moan, it fell. Gold plate, bricks, and mortar thundered to the floor in a thick rain, burying the Wyrm’s broken form beneath a hail of debris.
A collective gasp issued from the throat of each dragon as they followed the white trail that had been seared into their vision back to its source. A beast of magnificent size and beauty stood perched atop the far balcony. The sight Thatcher beheld was a gift few had the privilege to see. He felt compelled to bow.
Yansarian had returned, arrayed in the splendor of his true form. Thatcher was blinded by his majesty. Gone was the fleshy body of a man, replaced by a cold serpentine figure that dwarfed all of the dragons present. The Guardian’s hide was plated in row after row of scales that shined as bright as finely polished silver. The rays of the sun danced off the glistening plates, causing his body to emanate a sparkling light. A pair of broad translucent wings that appeared to be made of white lace sprouted from his back. His neck was thick, and tapered to a stunted beak. A golden mane hung about his chin and neck, draping to the floor. No one doubted they beheld the closest thing to a god that ever walked this earth. The perfect creation of the Creators of All, bequeathed with the cause of benevolent rule.
The other dragons joined Thatcher and bowed their heads in reverence.
“Yansarian,” said one elder, who had clearly known the demigod in an age long since past. “You have come to our aid in our greatest moment of need.”
“The Jetaees Op’mat has returned,” called another.
Yansarian nodded. “I apologize for my tardiness,” said Yansarian, his voice bearing an accent that was distinctly foreign to anything Thatcher had ever heard before. The demigod directed their gaze skyward. “I have brought a friend.”
The sun was momentarily obscured as a figure swooped in through the collapsed ceiling.
“Dain Camara...,” cried out Thatcher excitedly. He couldn’t be more pleased to see anyone else in the world. Then, he remembered Marshal, and his voi
ce caught in his throat.
Camara landed within the chamber with a slight halt. Thatcher noticed deep scars running across her neck and stomach. Something awful had occurred at Coralan that both Bently and Desperous had failed to share. Camara eyed the pile of rubble with disquiet. “Is the Wyrm dead?”
“No,” said Yansarian. He approached the pile cautiously. “This foe is not so easily defeated.”
As if in response, a cackle resounded throughout the room, echoing in discordance off the half-shattered steeple. “You should not have returned,” said the wicked voice. The source was ambiguous, and all eyes rapidly shifted about the room. “You are weak. These people have betrayed you. They’ve lost their way and have forgotten to pay homage to the gods of old. They would use you as a pawn, another piece in their game. Are you prepared to die for the sins of mortals?”
“Show yourself, Wyrm!” demanded Yansarian spitefully. “Do not waste our time with your cursed trickery.”
A thick mist filtered through the crevices of the rubble, boiling around the ankles of the dragons and collecting in the center of the room. The fog slowly began to take shape. What lay writhing in its wake was the image of nightmares.
From the blade-tipped tail to the glossy black-scaled head, the Wyrm’s serpentine figure wound upward to a pinnacle high above the marble floor. Supporting this massive frame were the sole appendages of the snake-like beast; a pair of pincers set at the apex of his two leathery wings. Crowning this ghastly figure was a beaked maw and dark beady eyes.
“Your form now matches your nature,” said Yansarian.
“Verily,” said Tyronious. “But tell me, Yansarian, what does your prophetic form reveal?” His voice drawled, the words hissing from his throat.
“The purity of my cause.”
“So you say,” said the Wyrm. “Yet the Shadow creeps as it ever has, and here we are about to fight one another.” He slithered closer, his unblinking gaze locked upon the Guardian. “I always imagined it would come to this; the so-called wicked versus the righteous. But I fooled myself, I imagined you would have grown weak from your lengthy stay in stasis. You surprise me. I see great strength in you.”
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 19
