“A gift from the masses,” answered Yansarian. He shifted a step away from the slithering serpent.
“You amuse me with your vain efforts in deception, but I see through you!” Tyronious drew close so that the two gods were only a few feet apart. “You have made a mistake by bringing the Orb to me.”
Thatcher was horribly confused. “How did he get the Orb?” he whispered to Camara.
“Lord Nochman granted him the stone,” said Camara in response. She motioned to a chain that was tied about the finger of the Guardian like a ring. A small blue stone was fastened at its center and glowed with vibrant light. “The Wyrm will not gain mastery of it while Yansarian lives. But it may not be enough. The stone is now so close the Wyrm might draw from it as well. It was a gamble Yansarian had to take.”
Thatcher nodded dumbly, his mind was somewhere else. “Marshal,” he heard himself muttering. “He...”
“I know,” said Camara quietly.
“He loved you dearly,” managed Thatcher. “Marshal thought of you in the end.”
“I will be with him soon enough,” said Camara. She looked to Thatcher with grave yet fearless eyes. “Listen to me. There is no dishonor in fleeing from a foe such as this. Promise me, when the time comes, you must fly.”
Thatcher began to refute her command, but the Wyrm’s banter drew his attention.
The serpentine head of Tyronious lifted into the air, and his nostrils flared as he drew in great draughts of air. He grinned. “The Orb is near. I, too, can feel its warmth. Too long have you left it hidden. It is overripe, and I can taste its presence.”
“Yes, Wyrm, I have brought it here. But you haven’t the strength to take it from me.” Standing upon his hind legs, Yansarian rose to his full height. He towered over Tyronious, thrusting the glowing ring into the Wyrm’s face. “This stone was made for good, and it will be used to that end. I will blast you from the earth in fire and light.”
“Then you intend to waste it, as I supposed you would,” said Tyronious in disappointment. “I am not your foe. Give me the Orb. Let us fly to Coralan and use it for its true intent. We may yet right the order of things!”
“I have weighed these thoughts and ruled them to be folly. The creatons have inherited the earth. Our time has passed. The era of the gods is no more.”
The Wyrm lowered his gaze and eyed the Guardian with simmering hatred. “When you arrive to the skies of Elandria, may your ancestors show pity upon your soul, for I will not.”
With their final remarks made, the two giants closed the gap. Jaws sought jugulars, claws tore at flesh, and the two bodies intertwined.
Thatcher witnessed the gods in all their strength and glory. But he also witnessed the horror and raw savagery they possessed. God and monster. Liberator and enslaver. They became intertwined as one. He knew then that neither of these two false idols would be the true savior of Laveria.
CHAPTER
XXI
THE VOICE
Demetry sat on the foot of the dais beside the throne of Caper. The building creaked and moaned like a living creature as the god and dragons dueled overhead. He spied cracks beginning to web across the plastered ceiling, growing with the pound of each step on the floor above.
About him the reeking scent of perfume filled the air. King Johan was seated atop the ebony throne. Demetry wondered how he had gotten there; he didn’t remember ordering the wraith king to move. Even in death Johan still bore the features of a true king. He looked resplendent, draped in his silken robe and gold chains. Beneath his crown, milky eyes stared mockingly at Demetry. Had Demetry lost control of everything he possessed? No voice replied in answer.
He held his head in despair. How could he have been so foolish? After such careful planning, he couldn’t believe he had been betrayed. How had he not seen Tyronious for who he truly was? Demetry had been used to exact the will of a monster. He had no remorse for the butchery and warfare, but he felt ill that all had been done for the advantage of another. All had been done in the name of the Wyrm. His soul no longer felt as if it were his own.
He rubbed the Jeta Stone longingly. It was now so apparent. He could feel the stone’s power and the strength it gave him. It was like an addiction he never realized he had.
He pressed the stone against his forehead, running it gingerly over the raised and burnt flesh. The mark of the Wyrm was branded upon his brow. Demetry knew he could erase the scar with the wave of his hand, but something stopped him. Had he no power of his own? Demetry felt as though it might be true. Feeling the stone’s strength coursing through his veins, he realized he feared the loss of power more than he feared the Wyrm.
“I have the strength to change the world,” whispered Demetry. His mind had grown twisted with delusion.
“But you haven’t the power to save it,” answered the one voice that had ever truly mattered. The one voice that had been silent for far too long.
Demetry smiled. He was not as alone as he believed. The voices had not completely forsaken him. Yet even as he thought this, he heard the thud of footfalls at the end of the central aisle. Demetry spun in a rage of fury, ready to face his accuser. His fingers quivered as he prepared to unleash a torrent of energy. But then he paused and cried in dismay over whom he beheld. It cannot be. Yet it was.
Like a ghost from a past life, a bedraggled figure stepped from the shadows of the colonnade and revealed himself. “I have come to pass your final judgment,” said the figure, garbed in a motley collection of travel-worn clothes.
“Jeremiah!” cried Demetry in shock. The old magic stood before him, sounding as he always had, yet the space between their last meeting and now had made the two men strangers, even if they had been connected this whole time through the whispering recesses of his mind. “You’ve come back to me.” Demetry ran to his former mentor and hugged him heartedly. Pulling back, his eyes were filled with tears. “You look the same. I knew you would, but...” His words trailed off into silence. The last time he had seen Jeremiah, he was lying dead in a field of grass outside the walls of the prison Coljack. “I knew you would find me.” He finally managed.
“When I awoke you were gone. You had fled,” said Ivatelo. “Why did you raise me, Demetry?”
“I needed you,” stammered Demetry. He let his arms fall away from the old man. “I needed you then, but I was afraid.” He shook his head. “But I need you again, Jeremiah. I’ve been...” He couldn’t finish the words.
“You’ve been betrayed,” said Ivatelo, his voice was cold and without pity. Demetry remembered the kindness in Jeremiah’s eyes. He looked for it, but it was no longer there. It had been replaced by something else; worry, regret, disappointment. Jeremiah was judging him.
Demetry stepped away from the magic, suddenly fearful of another betrayal. “Where have you been all this time?” demanded Demetry, taking on an accusatory tone.
“I had to do something before I could come to you.”
“What?” demanded Demetry. “Surely you have heard of my exploits. Why did you not seek me out?” His eyes narrowed. “And why now, old friend? What is your purpose?”
“The deception of the Wyrm is powerful, Demetry.”
“I can see Tyronious’s two faces for what they are,” challenged Demetry. “But can I trust you?”
“No, you cannot,” said Ivatelo sternly. “Not if you stay on the path that you are on. But if you are willing to hear wisdom, you might yet be saved. Please, listen to me before it is too late.” Ivatelo reached for Demetry, gesturing much like a man seeking alms.
Demetry shirked away from his touch. “Who is he to grant you clemency?” whispered the voices in unison within Demetry’s head. “You are the king. The old fool should have come before you on bended knee!” Demetry smiled, pleased that they had returned to him.
“You should have come before me on bended knee,” repeated Demetry with Johan’s voice.
Ivatelo clutched at Demetry’s hands fawningly, and fell to his knees, complying with the
command. “Tyronious needs you, Your Grace. He hasn’t the power to find the Orb without your armies. Deny him this. If you cooperate with the Wyrm, you will live out your life as a slave to his dominion. And if ever the will of the creatons fail, and the Orb is found, your purpose will be obsolete and he will see a quick end to you. But there is an alternative; lay down your army and let us walk from here together. You can disappear and leave all of this behind you. He will not find you, I’ll see to that.”
“To what end?” challenged Demetry throwing off Ivatelo’s hold. “Do you not see? It is too far along for that now.”
“There are still lives that can be saved,” said Ivatelo. “At what point did you lose all value for life?”
Demetry turned his gaze away, hearing the truth in his elder’s words.
“The horrors you have wrought cannot be undone,” pleaded Ivatelo. “The ground runs red with the blood of the innocent. But the killing can end. I know Tyronious. I was once enamored with his promises.” Still on his knees, Ivatelo shuffled closer, but Demetry withdrew, the voices advising him to keep his distance.
“Don’t confuse your foolish misdeeds with my accomplishments,” said Demetry. “I was never betrayed by that demon’s double face. I saw through to his true purpose all along. I used him to my will. And I will dispose of him when he has fulfilled his purpose.”
“Then you have deceived no one but yourself,” said Ivatelo, his face sagging with despair.
“You question my power?” roared out Demetry. “The strength of the gods is within me. I could render this world asunder, or bring prosperity that would strangle the most wretched of beggars.”
“What emboldens you to make such a claim?” challenged Ivatelo. “When did you fall astray?”
Demetry pointed an accusative finger in Ivatelo’s face. “You did this to me,” said Demetry. “You died and abandoned me when I needed you most.”
“I gave you back your life,” pleaded Ivatelo. “I thought you were worthy of forgiveness. The world had done you a wrong. I wanted to help you, Demetry.”
“By dying?”
“I was never deserving of forgiveness or freedom,” said Ivatelo. “I brought a plague upon this land. There is no redemption for such a sin. My life was one of repentance and punishment. I see now that you have made the same dreadful mistake.”
“You don’t know what I have become,” yelled Demetry, unable to hide his anguish any longer. “I loved you like a father, but now you stand ready to betray and judge me, like everyone else before you.”
“No,” cried Ivatelo. “You have simply lost your way. Let me help you.”
“No one can help me now,” said Demetry with resolution. “I stand alone.”
The blow seemed to come from nowhere. Demetry’s body was torn from the ground and flung against the nearest column, causing the support beam to snap in two. The capital head came down upon his wrist, smashing his hand nearly flat. Bone, flesh, and muscle became entwined as one.
Demetry threw the chunk of marble off of his hand, and stamped about the room, issuing a series of howls and curses. It had been so long since Demetry had come across someone who had mastery over the Old Magic, he had almost forgotten that Ivatelo could draw from the Sundered Soul without saying a word. A chill wind ripped through the chamber, stinging Demetry’s cheeks. The blood that dripped from his smashed and deformed hand froze upon the ground. Demetry bit back his pain, and grasped the Jeta Stone with his sound hand, drawing from its well of power. His mangled hand quivered and jerked grotesquely, slowly retaking its shape as his mind’s eye set his flesh and sinew in its proper order.
“Do not mistake me for one of the whelps you slaughtered at Taper,” called Ivatelo defiantly. “And do not mistake my age for frailty. You have made me immortal through your sins and increased my power tenfold.” Ivatelo lashed out with a hail of ball lightning.
Demetry smiled grimly. Ivatelo did not yet realize he was facing an insurmountable power. Demetry raised his hands defensively, collecting the blow into a point of nothingness within his palm. “Your very existence is now indebted to me!” said Demetry. “How greedy it was for you to withhold knowledge from me at Coljack. But I have learned much since then. You say you live to suffer. I will bear down upon you a suffering like nothing ever experienced!” With one hand he clutched the Jeta Stone, and with the other he unleashed the mote of light. Ivatelo had no chance to cast a defensive spell and an unnerving crack resounded as ribs were cleaved in two. A fist-sized hole was punctured through Ivatelo’s quilted tunic, leaving a nightmarish cavity in his chest. Ivatelo was physically unfazed, yet a nonplussed expression transfixed his face. His eyes finally settled upon the broken crescent Demetry held clasped in his hand.
“You have a Jeta Stone,” gasped Ivatelo in disbelief. He stumbled backward, as he finally understood his doom, and began to retreat across the room.
Demetry followed after him step for step, casting spells and counterspells. The wraith king watched them duel from his ebony throne, his mouth mindlessly jawing as he raised more dead to his carrion army.
“Don’t you see,” called Demetry. “Neither you nor any mortal can defeat me. I have become akin to the gods.”
“At the dire price of the world,” said Ivatelo. His back thumped against one of the stained-glass windowpanes that encircled the room. He could retreat no further.
Demetry drew close, his face pained. “I will save them yet,” said Demetry, with demented certainty. “I will save them from themselves. End the death, end the strife. I will bring peace to Laveria.”
“If the means to that end is war, then you have lost all sense. I pity you, Demetry. You don’t comprehend the pain you have caused.” Ivatelo covered his face with his forearms, causing Demetry to eye him in puzzlement.
The glass to Ivatelo’s rear suddenly burst into a hundred deadly shards. It became a whirlwind of razors, hurtling toward Demetry, cutting across his cheeks and biting into his flesh.
In the confusion, Ivatelo made his move. He grasped the Jeta Stone, yanking it free from Demetry’s hand. Demetry felt his stomach turn over as the wellspring of power slipped from his possession. For a moment it came under Ivatelo’s control, and the old magic drank from it greedily. First his hands became alight, then his arms, torso, and finally his head and legs. All became translucent, as if an orange flame was burning through his body. His clothes wicked away, consumed in the blaze, until suddenly there was a rupture. Ivatelo’s hands twisted from the medallion with a burst of light.
The medallion fell back against Demetry’s chest; tendrils of smoke wafted about its surface. Demetry exhaled in relief, clasping the Jeta Stone firmly to his heart until his knuckles went white from the forces of exertion. He found that the stone had gone cold, it was as if the well of strength on the other side was empty.
Ivatelo slumped against the lip of the window, his body devastated by his brief taste of Tyronious’s power. “I beg of you,” was all Ivatelo could manage through blood-flecked lips. “Demetry, don’t forget your past. Don’t repeat your sins.”
“Whose sins?” said Demetry, echoing the words that were being whispered in his ear. “I am Stuart, I am Johan, I am Salmaen, I am Baelac, I am Luca Marcus. I am even you, Jeremiah. I am the convergence of the Sundered Soul! Whose sins should I renounce?”
“It’s never too late,” said Ivatelo pitifully.
“It is for us.”
Ivatelo looked aside, perhaps finally understanding what Demetry had known long ago; the Demetry worth saving had died on that field outside Coljack. Demetry imagined he heard a plaintive whisper mingled within the cries of the other voices in his head. “I loved you like a son.”
“I know,” was all Demetry could say in response. Remorsefully, he set his free hand firmly against his mentor’s chest and sent a blast ripping through Ivatelo’s body. The old magic fell backward, tumbling through the open window and into the oblivion beyond.
CHAPTER
XXII
> YASMIRE
Much of the tower’s steeple lay in ruin from the thrashing coils of the Wyrm. Yansarian’s porcelain scales ran red with blood. His left leg and side had been punctured repeatedly by the Wyrm’s pincer talons. Even with the Orb in his possession, Yansarian’s strength appeared to be quickly fading.
Tyronious had fared little better. While his superiority in strength was apparent from the onset, he was outnumbered ten to one. The dragons tore savagely at the Wyrm’s unprotected hide. In defense, Tyronious’s tail swung to and fro like a lash. All who felt its flail soon found themselves in the skies of Elandria. Three of the elders already lay dead with broken spines.
Thatcher kept his distance, sticking to the outskirts of the hall and taking his cues from the elders. The devastating powers of the Wyrm had been the terror of fables. Now, confronted face-to-face with this evil, Thatcher had little doubt that the stories were true. In his mind’s eye he envisioned the old realm of Halgath, scorched beyond recognition by Wyrm fire. Thatcher considered his own pathetic slaver that dripped from his mouth like burning lamp oil. He had a dreadful fear that Tyronious was holding back, almost savoring this conflict to the bitter end. If that were so, none of them would leave the tower alive.
Tyronious and Yansarian eyed each other from across the room. With an ear-splitting roar the two closed the distance, lunging with jaws agape. To the shock of all, each god latched upon the throat of the other.
“Down!” bellowed Camara. The dragoness instinctively threw herself away from the pair, pulling Thatcher with her. She shrouded him with the embrace of her wings.
The two gods unleashed their full power. Blinding light thundered through the enclosure like an explosion, sheering stone from mortar and engulfing the room in a hail of molten fire. Even with Camara lying between him and the lapping flame, Thatcher could feel the energy peeling away his scales and singeing his flesh. Two dragons who had not managed to take cover disappeared in a swirl of soot. All others stayed low, praying silently that they would survive until the torrent ended.
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 20
