Finally, there was silence. The searing pain shooting across Thatcher’s body faded. He dared to open his eyes. Camara’s scales had taken on the color of burnt clay and the membranes of her wings were gone, yet she rose otherwise unharmed. A dragon’s hide was made to withstand heat, after all. The top of the tower had been torn away, sent tumbling to the city streets below. Tyronious lay coiled across the southern balcony. His flesh was so severely burned it had burst open at many points. The Wyrm’s breath issued from his throat in harsh coughs. He appeared to be on the verge of death. Relieved that the Wyrm was dying, Thatcher let out a sigh and looked for Yansarian. But his effort was futile. The Guardian was gone. Yansarian had disappeared into the light. While Thatcher did not know if it was possible, it would seem that the Guardian had been incinerated in the blast.
“Slay the beast while he’s down!” roared Camara, spurring the remaining dragons back into action.
They charged the dazed Wyrm, going in for the kill. But Tyronious’s bladed pincer suddenly lashed out, cleaving the sinuous neck of the nearest dragon in two.
Tyronious rose uneasily, coiling his body high above the ground.
“Your Guardian has failed you,” hissed the Wyrm. “The damnation of Laveria has been sealed. My dominion has begun. Bow before your master!”
What Tyronious did not see in his maddened rant was Yansarian falling from the sky like a striking falcon. With his body set in a free fall, Yansarian hit the Wyrm with crushing force. He locked his jaws around Tyronious’s throat and contorted sideways in an effort to break the Wyrm’s neck. But Tyronious’s strength was still too great, and the two collapsed on each other. Yansarian let out a savage growl and pulled backward, attempting to render the Wyrm’s throat clean from his body; but instead, Yansarian tumbled sideways mid-effort, landing awkwardly on his side.
Yansarian tried to get back to his feet, his legs pinwheeling in the air, but something held him in place. It was then that Thatcher saw it. Protruding from the Guardian’s back, just below where the wing attached to his body, was the tip of the Wyrm’s pincer.
Thatcher cried in horror.
Tyronious reared up from beneath the Guardian’s tattered wings with his pincer still plunged deep into Yansarian’s chest. “You are my grandest prize!” roared the Wyrm in triumph.
Yansarian dug his clawed fingers into the Wyrm’s flesh and held him like a vice. “And you will be mine,” managed Yansarian in a broken voice.
Tyronious’s face twisted as he suddenly made a terrible realization. “You foul wretch!” screamed the Wyrm, as he thrashed viciously, trying to break the Guardian’s hold. He plunged downward with his free blade, his aim set upon the Guardian’s bloody skull. But his arm was wrenched to a stop. Camara had leapt through the air and grabbed the pincer an instant before it would have slain Yansarian.
Taking their cue, the remaining dragons swarmed in, leaping upon the Wyrm. Tyronious’s serpent tail flailed wildly. He was in a panic; his eyes were wide, his mouth frothing in exertion. He suddenly shuddered violently and howled like a banshee. Something was draining away Tyronious’s strength, and with each spastic twitch, his resistance grew less and less.
“Hold him down,” ordered Camara as she pounced upon the Wyrm’s head. She slammed his beaked maw into the ground with such force that the tip broke off and went clattering over the edge of the balcony.
Not knowing what else to do, Thatcher jumped into the fray. But just as he was about to come down on the writhing pile, he was walloped in the stomach by what felt like a war hammer. The air burst from his lungs, and he was lifted through the air, and sent plummeting over the balcony’s edge.
He thought he could hear a voice calling after him, one familiar and kind. “Fly, young one, fly.” But a cryptic call overwhelmed all. The foreign words echoed from the rooftop and reverberated in his head. “Tocasis re majrl, tocasis re fapati mel...”
He didn’t care what he had promised Camara. He was going back up there to guarantee the Wyrm was killed.
• • •
The goblin horde was like a pulsating wave of light and shadow; at one moment glittering brilliantly, a sea of mail and blades, then the next a ghastly horde of tanned hides and painted faces. They flooded over the land without restraint. Limbs and blades tangled into an indistinguishable mass. The earth trembled at their approach.
“Head high,” whispered Desperous.
Dolum needed no such direction. He ground his teeth and thrust forth his spear. This would be his demise, he had little doubt, but for some reason a drunken grin was pressed firmly across his face. He could think of no better place to die than alongside his friends and countrymen.
But suddenly the goblins did something unexpected. Without rhyme or reason, the horde unanimously veered west, taking their army past the creaton lines.
Dolum watched them go in dismay. “What are they doing?”
“Something astounding,” was all Desperous could manage.
The goblin horde had redirected their lines on a collision course with the rear of a dragoon division. Without slowing a step, the goblins collided with the dragoons. At first, confusion set in; the dragoons did not understand what was happening. The goblins allotted them no time to make sense of the matter. They hacked into the dragoon ranks with rusted swords and pikes.
“Ivatelo!” exclaimed Desperous in awe.
“He did it!” cried Dolum, as he leapt and danced in exuberance. “That old magic did it. That’s where he disappeared to in Ravor. He tricked the goblins into coming to our aid.” The joy Dolum felt was like nothing he had experienced before. They had just been saved by the most unlikely of allies.
For a moment, the cries of horror from the dragoon ranks were all Dolum could hear. But the calls of pain were quickly drowned out by cheering voices as the three creaton armies collectively cried in celebration. All about the battlefield horns trumpeted triumphantly, and a braying call sounded in return from the walls of the old city.
The dragoons, completely taken aback and confronted on three sides by the enemy, fell into a hasty retreat. They had become the underdog, their ranks overwhelmed by the vicious goblin horde.
“Don’t let them escape!” yelled Desperous. “To the aid of our comrades!”
Running side by side, Desperous and Dolum charged after the dragoons, leading their armies on. They cut off the dragoon retreat at the base of Serel, and there they were joined by the men of Caper. The three armies merged, and standing shoulder to shoulder, the elves, dwarves, and men dealt the fleeing enemy a mighty blow. The creatons of Laveria were once again united as one.
• • •
Thatcher’s wings caught the surge of air and drew taut. He arched his back and redirected his fall, swooping skyward. Almost immediately a pair of undead dragons broke from the swarming pack that circled the tower. They fell in pursuit. Thatcher ignored them; the only thing that mattered was making sure the Wyrm was killed.
The cryptic whisper from the tower’s peak was echoing loudly now. The sonorous words hung over the city as a heavy murmur, the effect almost lulling. Images of his youth suddenly tore through Thatcher’s mind. He shook his head trying to focus.
High above, near the shattered pinnacle of the tower, there was a flash of light. A lone speck arched away from the building and plummeted limply toward the earth. Unconsciously, Thatcher redirected himself to the object. It looked human. But as he drew near, his vision blurred. The murmuring voice had turned into a torrent of cries. Images washed over him. His father, his homeland in the east. His mother’s kindly face before she was turned by the necromancer. The war. Marshal’s ravaged body. The hideous figure of the Wyrm.
“Fly, Thatcher, fly!” Camara’s words tore through his mind with overwhelming force.
The object was close now, and without cause Thatcher regained focus and reached out, snatching up the figure.
What he found within his grasp caused him to cry in shock. “Ivatelo?” Thatcher gasped in dismay.
The broken form of the magic lay within his hands, frail and naked. Ivatelo had been ravaged by some unknown battle and his body was stiff. Was he dead? A low moan passed from Ivatelo’s lips. Alive, but not well, thought Thatcher.
“Can you hear me?” said Thatcher, still not averting his path upward. He was nearing the peak of the building. That’s when he realized the cryptic call had come to an end.
There was a light hovering above the pinnacle of the tower. It started as simple and dim as a candle’s flame. It was a lovely sight, glowing soft and innocuous. He was drawn to it like a bug to a flame, and for a moment all he could think was that the Wyrm was dead. He felt it in the air; a lightening of things, as if a veil of shadow had been stripped away from the land. But even as he considered this joyous thought, a voice screamed in his mind. He had to flee.
Without a sound the light burst outward, a perfect sphere that consumed much of the tower in its blinding radiance. Then, as if the fires of the sun had been unleashed, an explosion of unprecedented fury came rushing from its core. The air boiled; the stone of the tower melted away like ice licked by flame. Thatcher twisted his body and fled from the growing apocalypse. The undead dragons that circled the tower in a tight swarm were consumed, the flesh and bones of their wretched bodies turned to ash. Then the flame was upon him.
Thatcher felt the membranes of his wings shrivel. His scales began to singe, he smelled burning flesh. He bellowed in agony, and with a last burst of power he set his body into a dive. But the fire was too fast. It fell around him and hemmed him in. His vision turned red and then black. In an instant, he was consumed by black belching flames. The roar of a thousand suns was the last thing he heard. Then silence.
• • •
Dolum fought back to back with Desperous, the two dealing horrid punishment upon the dragoon and carrion ranks. The goblin swarm flowed over the enemy like a raging river, painting the world red. They could not be denied.
Having pressed the enemy to the base of Serel, Desperous suddenly doubled over, stricken with a crippling anguish. Dolum immediately fell to his side.
“Desperous, what is it?”
Desperous was clutching painfully at his chest. He reared back, tearing at the jewel hanging from his neck. He yanked it loose and held it aloft. “The light!” he cried.
Dolum saw it immediately. The light had left the jewel. That could only mean one thing.
“The Guardian has been slain,” whispered Desperous in horror.
“Look!” screamed a soldier at Dolum’s side.
To the west, the Eng Mountains suddenly flared with brilliant flames. A light surged over the highest peaks and rushed toward the valley below with blinding speed.
“What in the name of everything holy is that?” Dolum cried in fright.
“I don’t know,” responded Desperous.
A moment later, the light surged through the trees across the Marlan River, rushed through Luthuania, burst over the ramparts, and arrived at the battlefield. It lapped harmlessly over the forms of the living but seared through the dead. The air boiled and the ground began to shake. Suddenly, an ear-splitting screech sounded through the enflamed wind.
The bodies of the carrions began to splinter apart. Flaking at first, and then rushing away in swirling clouds of soot. In a matter of moments their decrepit bodies were reduced to dust. Their disembodied armor and weapons hung aimlessly in the air for a few brief seconds, and then fell in heaps. The flaming wind moved on, leaving a deathly silence on the plains before Luthuania.
Dolum eyed the field around him in disbelief. It was as if a great stain had been lifted from the land. The carrions had simply vanished, only their discarded clothes and weapons remained.
“The Shadow be praised,” whispered Dolum, not out of compulsion, but in genuine gratitude that the god had seen him through the storm.
At first, an uneasy cry of jubilation rose amongst the ranks, but it soon caught on like wildfire. They could not contain their joy. En masse, the creaton forces jumped in celebration.
For a moment, Dolum panicked. They still needed to attend to the dragoons. But that fear was quickly quelled. The dragoons were already fleeing up Serel in complete disarray. The lumani, ever ready to exact their revenge, ran forward with longbows and laid waste to the remaining foes.
“The dragons,” cried out Dolum in disbelief. “They did it. They killed the necromancer!”
Beside him, Desperous was without words. He stood stiffly, staring with mournful eyes over the bloody battlefield. He clutched the Jeta Stone to his lips, checking to see if it was still cold.
Dolum felt the absence, too. He cupped his father’s war hammer to his chest, finally succumbing to the horrors of the day, and fell to his knees, crying unabashedly. The good had somehow prevailed, but victory had been achieved at a most dire cost.
CHAPTER
XXIII
EVELYN
Evelyn had seen battle at Manherm, and she supposed she knew what slaughter looked like. She was not prepared for what she saw when she stepped through the city gates of Luthuania and into the field beyond. The mask of smoke that obscured all sight was gone. She could now clearly behold the scurrying shapes she had spied from atop Nochman’s High Tower balcony. She wished she could not. Men and dragoons, elves and dwarves, horses and kaziaks. All lay intermingled and broken atop one another. They traced a savage line across the field, showing where the armies of the two sides had met.
There must have been a hundred thousand men strewn about the field. In places there were piles of discarded armor, shed by the carrions as they were wicked away by the wind. In others, whole battalions lay heaped atop one another where they had broken upon the enemy’s line to no avail. As if traversing a maze, she had to zigzag through the field to make any progress. At one point an unmounted kaziak shuffled across her path with a spear thrust through one eye, and a second and a third stabbed into its flanks. She patted the unfortunate beast upon the snout. It sighted her with its lone rheumy eye before it continued on its way, doubtlessly looking for someplace to lie down and die. There were more bloodied and haggard men traipsing about the field than she could count. Most were too dazed to reason whether they should be helping the wounded or seeking help themselves.
Here and there she spied squat gangrel creatures that scurried around on all fours. They were bounding from body to body of the dragoons, busily hacking off the wing blades and collecting them in baskets that were slung to their backs. Everyone seemed to regard the foul creatures with disquiet, and Evelyn granted them a wide berth. This inadvertently caused her to come upon a place in the field where they were collecting the injured. A thousand men were lined up in neat rows upon the grass. Vacian acolytes were solemnly filing amongst the dying, performing final rites to those who would not survive the coming night.
“May the Weaver protect these poor wretched souls,” Evelyn moaned, as she looked over the scourge of war. The guilt that gnawed at her stomach grew each time she passed another corpse. I did this, Evelyn realized. I caused this massacre of men. She had given these men a banner to rally around when in truth they should have simply surrendered. Yes, they had won the war, but it was not worth this.
She found a group of Capernicans resting atop the timbers of a shattered siege tower near the ruins of the necromancer’s camp. A recreant dragoon who had made the mistake of surrendering hung crucified to the wooden frame. He gulped in his final breaths like a fish out of water. The zealous men paid the dying dragoon no notice, their attention had been drawn elsewhere. They had come upon a store of wine and were well past their first case. Two of the men were wrestling in the mud for some trinket they had looted off a corpse. The conscripts hooted and cheered them on while nearby a lone knight looked on with disinterest. His armor was so dented and gouged she could scarcely detect the faint crest of Hedrotria that was emblazoned upon his breast. He glanced up at her with his dark southern eyes, regarding her queerly as she came on through the field.
She doubtlessly appeared an oddity in this already insane world. Her trousers were drenched with Nochman’s blood. Her hands were singed black from her attempt to take the Orb.
“Have you seen Commander Disias?” asked Evelyn, knowing that the unctuous man was likely the only person left in Laveria who might serve her.
“Upon the crest of Ois, last I saw,” said the knight with a snort. He made no effort to call her Your Grace. Perhaps he didn’t even know who she was.
Evelyn curtsied as she was taught to do and continued on her way. She was not that knight’s queen, nor was she the queen of any of these men. She had to shove her way through the collection of milling men to get them to part. The conscripts looked up from their fight only long enough to shout a few lewd remarks. Apparently it had been some time since they had seen a woman.
She had to weave her way through the quagmire of dead that ornamented the slope of Ois to make her ascent.
The Guardian had taken away the only purpose her life had ever known. After Yansarian flew off with the Orb, Evelyn knew it was time to flee High Tower. The look on Rancor’s face said enough; if she stuck around he might kill her. She had inherited Waymire’s betrayal through association. No, she corrected herself. I betrayed Rancor outright by trying to take the Orb for myself. She slipped from the room while Rancor was still reeling from the revelation of the Guardian’s return. She did not bother to go to her apartment and collect her possessions; they had never held much value in her mind. She was alive, and as long as that remained the case, there was still a chance she could fulfill her purpose.
Disias was where the knight said she would find him. He was curled knees to chin. His armor and tunic had been stripped away. Shivering hands pressed a ball of red cloth to his stomach, tenuously keeping his entrails from spilling out across the ground. His eyes were clamped shut. His face was contorted in focus as he slowly breathed through chapped lips.
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 21
