Storm of Divine Light

by Ernesto San Giacomo

  “What awaits at the pass?” Branson asked.

  Cyril stepped up. “The Ishikor, the Orb of the First Light, was stolen from Mentiria. The thieves head for the pass. We hope to get to them before they cross the border.”

  The captain eyeballed his men. “Lieutenant Lyghur, we will ride with the Elves at their request to the Gorthul Pass. Return to the palace and tell the king all that has happened.” Lyghur saluted and rode off. Captain Branson raised his sword. “We ride with Elves on our side!” A roar of approval rose from the soldiers. Even Liberon and Cyril cheered.

  ***

  With each passing hour the Dramborne Mountains grew closer. They stopped briefly at a stream to water the horses. Ahead, the narrow road climbed the foothills to a low point between two peaks. Branson rode up beside Dagorat. “Look there,” he said. “It’s the Gorthul Pass.”

  “Hm. Not much room to maneuver up there.” Dagorat squinted. “What’s that?”

  Cyril joined them and also peered ahead. “It’s a dust cloud. Korak’s balls! Could that be…”

  Katrina yanked her spyglass from her pack and trained it on the blur. “Blackfang’s wagons.”

  Dagorat cursed. The thief was at the border. Captain Branson cantered to the head of the pack and swung his sword in a circular motion overhead. “For Queen Etheldreda and King Baldomir!”

  A cheer rose from the Vigilants in response. “Strike thine enemies from our sight!”

  They spurred their mounts and charged, Branson leading the way. The thundering horses kicked up a swarm of dust, stifling Dagorat’s vision. His ears filled with the rumble of hooves.

  Grinning, he relived his earlier days, charging after merchant wagons on horseback. He had forgotten the sense of power which transfers from galloping horse to rider. Overwhelming invincibility coursed through him. Katrina rode next to him, a fierce grin etched on her face.

  Ahead, Blackfang’s three wagons sped up; they must have spotted their pursuers. The trio climbed a hill and then disappeared behind it, with Dagorat and company in hot pursuit.

  “Halt!” came a voice from ahead. It sounded like Branson.

  Dagorat yanked back on his reins; his horse came to a swift stop and reared up on its hind legs. “What’s going on?”

  “They cut the horses loose from a wagon and left it to block the road. Flip that damned thing off to the side!” The Vigilants dismounted, organized themselves and flipped the wagon with a loud crash. Branson’s horse pawed the ground, shaking its head. Well, at least they got half the road cleared. “Ride single file!” Branson ordered.

  One by one, they passed the overturned wagon, and then regrouped into two files. Riding crops and spurs forced their tired horses to a frantic pace. Blackfang’s wagons came into view again. A surge of hope filled Dagorat. They closed in on their prey.

  But his hope was short-lived. Over the next hill loomed a wall of vertical, pointed logs. Blackfang’s wagons passed through an open gate and kept on going. As the pursuers approached, a flurry of arrows came raining down on them. Three of the Vigilants fell from their horses and lay still. Captain Branson charged through the gate, screaming for blood. The rest followed, joining in his war cry.

  Past the gate, an orc charged at Dagorat from the left. He deflected the attack and then buried his sword into the beast’s chest. A sudden sting made him whirl to the right; another orc had clumsily nicked his forearm. The orc spun around to attack another rider. Dagorat fished under his sleeve for Frostbite. With a quick slice across the neck, black blood rushed from the severed artery, and the orc was dead. He scanned the area for more, but the Elves and the Vigilants had made short work of the small force. Stinking orc corpses lay everywhere. But where had Blackfang gone?

  Dagorat spotted the wagon tracks in the mud underfoot; they led through a second gate in another wall, a hundred yards ahead. Through that gate, stretching for miles, hundreds of plumes of smoke dominated the view. Each billowing pillar represented a campsite for the Golgent host.

  Cyril let out an angry cry. “By Korak’s carbuncled ass! We’ll never catch him now.”

  Katrina and Liberon stared at the mage, wide-eyed.

  “Don’t say a word,” Dagorat whispered to them.

  A great roar sounded. In horror, Dagorat snapped his gaze up. Orcs poured through the far gate.

  “Retreat!” Branson yelled.

  They turned around and charged away, back out of the pass and down to the plains. This time, Dagorat’s sense of power was nonexistent. All they’d done was for nothing. The caravan, the detective work, even getting himself kicked in the balls – was all for naught. The Golgent had the Orb, and intended to ground Easterly to dust. Perhaps the worst part was how close they’d come. So close. His shoulders slumped. Now what?

  Without horses, the orcs gave up their pursuit. Branson called a rest, and they slowed their poor, lathered mounts to a walk.

  Liberon whimpered, his eyes welling up. “We’ll never get the Orb back now.”

  Cyril nudged his horse to walk beside him. “It is not over yet. Every cold day of winter is later matched by a blossoming day of spring.”

  “Those are just words,” Liberon said.

  “Hope is a word,” Lhinthel chimed in. “‘And by a word, the Light of creation sprang forth.’”

  The monk’s reddened eyes locked with hers. “I don’t need a lesson about the Sacred Writings.”

  She placed her hand on his head. “Have you not read the final chapter? The Light is always triumphant.”

  CHAPTER 19

  ANCIENT RITES FULFILLED

  DAGORAT’S STOMACH FLUTTERED AS THEIR group drew near Ethelton’s lone gate. He’d hoped to slip inside as one of many anonymous travelers in a caravan. But now he had to parade into the city escorted by Elves. As the news spread, crowds would mob the streets to witness such a great and rare sight. With everyone captivated by the Elves, perhaps staying to the rear was the best option. Even the guards at the main gate may be too distracted to notice him. Yes, the Elves made a better cover than the caravan. The trembling in his gut faded away.

  After their triumphant entrance, no doubt Cyril and Lhinthel would be called before the king. They wouldn’t ask Dagorat to come along, but maybe he’d go anyway. After all, King Baldomir had never seen him. The same went for most of the nobility. They’d heard of him, or caught a fleeting glimpse of a dark rider galloping away, but none had ever seen his face.

  No. The commoners, if anyone, would recognize him. They used to fall over backwards to do things for him, laughed at his jokes, lit his pipe, slapped him on the back, and always sought his company. But he understood now that they never did love him; they loved the money he gave them. Cyril had tried to warn him about purchased loyalty. When the noblemen pooled their resources together and offered a generous reward, his so-called admirers had betrayed him. When the Watch came, he’d fled out an open window and across the rooftops. It still irked him that he’d just undressed Mazilda the tavern wench and left her wanting. Perhaps she offered her favors to one of his pursuers instead.

  A growing roar of voices from inside the city walls made his horse lay his ears back, and shook Dagorat out of his reverie. He’d guessed correctly; the people had already assembled to witness the great sight. Yes, he decided, he would go with the Elves to the king.

  Cyril and Lhinthel led the contingent. Ahead of them, Vigilants trotted along, shouting orders, making other travelers clear the way. As they passed through the outer portcullis, the Vigilants took up position on the right, the Elves on the left. Dagorat stayed in the rear, and Katrina slowed to join him. She pouted prettily, but he refused to give in to the distraction. “It’s dangerous for me to be here. Stay ready for anything.” Then a thought struck him. “Wait. Have you pulled any jobs in Ethelton before?”

  “No, I’ve never been here before.”

  Dagorat breathed a sigh of relief. He had the courage to put himself in harm’s way, but he wouldn’t risk Katrina’s safety.


  The immense wooden gate loomed over them as they approached, dominating the view. “And I thought it looked grim from a distance,” Katrina said. Dagorat tipped his chin; impossibly tall and impeccably kept, the heavy oak doors and imposing gray granite weren’t at all designed to make visitors feel especially welcome.

  More guards than he’d expected crowded near the gate, some mounted and others on foot. Word must have spread to every corner of the city about the strange party approaching. No doubt, Lieutenant Lyghur’s report had spread like wildfire to all ears.

  They halted at the gate. Lhinthel and Cyril rode up to the guards, who stared slack-jawed at them. “We Elves request counsel with King Baldomir,” Lhinthel said in a soft, humble voice. “Our friends here shall join us.”

  As if held in a trance, none of the guards reacted; instead they stood and stared. One of the older men – a sergeant, presumably – shook himself back to reality. “We’ve been told of your coming. Make way for the Elves!” he shouted. “Escort!”

  A number of mounted soldiers kicked their horses forward and took up positions on both sides. One of them centered himself in front of the column and shouted, “To the king!” With that command, the column moved into the city. Dagorat trailed at the end, hood up – safe, for now.

  ***

  King Baldomir sliced his poached egg and let the yolk drip over the sides of his bacon and crumpet bread.

  “No,” the queen said. “That’s not how you should hold your fork.”

  Baldomir raised his eyes. Oh, of course. Queen Suzanah was giving instructions to their youngest son, not to him. She hovered behind the five-year-old’s seat on the left side of the table. Across from her, two of their daughters ate daintily while sharing girlish giggles. At the king’s right hand sat their eldest, Kasomir, nineteen years old and a fine heir to the Kingdom. Their eldest daughter, Plantagia, sat opposite Kasomir to the king’s immediate left.

  “And don’t open your mouth wide for a huge piece. Cut your food into small bites.” She addressed the king. “Perhaps we need a new etiquette trainer for little Carltomir.”

  “Do as you wish. If you think the lad needs a new teacher, then hire one.”

  “Master Milton is not suitable. He spends most of his time staring at cleavages. Especially Lady Mortinson’s. They say he’s more familiar with her bosom than her husband is.”

  “Enough,” Baldomir said. “He needs more time studying the art of war than the art of eating. And stop the petty court gossip in front of the children. Now, I’d like to enjoy my breakfast. It’s the only time of the day when I don’t have to worry about the affairs of the throne.”

  “Why should they not hear?” The queen raised a defiant chin. “One day all that court gossip will be directed at them. They should learn how to sort through it.”

  Infernal woman. Always worried about trifles. Baldomir pulled a dagger from his sleeve and thrust it wildly at Kasomir. The boy ducked out of the way, and the dagger plunged into the back of the chair. The young prince grabbed his father’s hand, yanked him towards himself, and held his own dagger to the king’s neck.

  Baldomir bellowed a great laugh. “Excellent, my son!” Kasomir grinned and slid his dagger back into his sleeve. The king snapped his gaze to Plantagia. “Mark well what you’ve seen, my daughter. Always be wary.” He gave the queen a superior glance. “Holding a fork correctly matters less than skillfully wielding a weapon. But if it will keep you happy, dismiss Milton and find someone else to teach the children.”

  The doors at the far end of the hall slammed open. Fakir, the royal secretary, ran into the room, face flushed and hands trembling. Baldomir dropped his spoon, every muscle tense. Fakir was normally so even-tempered. He had to be bearing dire news to be this worked up.

  Fakir came to a halt and bowed to all present. His breath came short and fast. “Sire, the Elves have arrived. They’re on the way here to greet you.”

  Elves in Ethelton! The moment had come. The summation of all the hopes, dreams, and aspirations of generations of Easterlain royalty, locked in the lone event of a single morning. For over a hundred years, Elves hadn’t come near the Kingdom, much less the city. Although the report from Lieutenant Lyghur had come earlier, nothing could have prepared him for this moment. Like the way that months of expecting the arrival of his children held no comparison to the stunning joy of their births.

  Baldomir jumped up from his chair. “Ready my crown, my scepter, and the family’s royal robes.” The command echoed through the hall, and a number of pages scurried off. Before long, an army of servants came rushing in with the requested garments and began to outfit the king, queen and bewildered children.

  Shortly thereafter, two more attendants strode in at a measured and dignified pace. Each bore a soft cushion; one held the scepter and the other, the crown. The scepter was a plain wooden staff topped with a golden sculpture of what Dagorat surmised was the Orb. The crown was a simple circlet of gold, embossed with an image of the Orb. After the king’s robes were on, the two attendants approached. One moved around behind him, lifted the crown, and held it over his head. He intoned, “For this purpose you were born,” and placed it on the king’s brow.

  The other servant grasped the scepter, handed it to Baldomir and said, “Rule with the wisdom of Etheldreda.” He accepted it with the traditional bow of reverence, and turned to collect his family.

  The royals left the dining room and marched down a long corridor to the balcony overlooking the palace gates. Baldomir and Suzanah led the way, hand in hand. Prince Kasomir and Princess Plantagia followed on their heels, while the younger children took up the rear with their attendants. Images of a glorious future swirled through the king’s mind. Perhaps peace would come to Easterly, allowing peasants and nobles alike to prosper. He yearned to pass on to Kasomir a joyful reign.

  At his approach, two servants pulled open the balcony doors. The commotion in the streets filled the room with echoes. Baldomir took his place at the rail and surveyed the scene below. Most people faced away from the palace, waiting to catch the first glimpse of the Elves. How rare to be out in public and not be the subject of everyone’s gaze. To be honest, he found it rather liberating. But before long, a lone woman caught a glimpse of him and shouted, “Oy, it’s the king!” As one, the crowd below fixed its collective gaze on him. He exaggerated his smile and waved to thunderous cheers.

  Then their rapt stares focused back toward the distant end of the street. The crowd rippled, making way for a column of haggard but long-awaited riders, flanked by the city guard. This must be the Elves, then. Baldomir hoped he looked sufficiently regal. He gazed down as the entourage halted beneath the balcony.

  A disheveled Elven woman at the head of the column nudged her horse forward. The crowd fell silent as she spoke. “I am Lhinthel, daughter of Althoviel, descendant of Hladomir, Queen of the Elves by right of my birth.” She dismounted her horse. “I bow to none save a sovereign descendant of Etheldreda.”

  The king responded, “I am Baldomir, son of Tutonomir, descendant of Etheldreda, King of the Easterlains by right of my birth.”

  Lhinthel bowed to him. The crowd remained still, relishing the importance of the moment. The Elf waited expectantly. Ah, yes. The ancient ceremony was not complete. “I bow to none, save a sovereign descendant of Hladomir,” he said, and bowed to Lhinthel.

  The crowd roared, some cheering the king and others cheering the visitors. Leaves and petals filled the air, along with ancient songs about the return of the Elves. Baldomir waved again to the crowd, and then retreated into the alcove. “Bring them to the throne room,” he commanded.

  ***

  Dagorat hummed along with the ancient songs drifting in from the street. Travelling bards often played such favorites either to start or end a performance. He strode with the others through the corridors of the palace toward the throne room. Funny, what life made unfold. Never had he thought to step inside this place. Unless, perhaps, on the way to the gallows.

&nbs
p; Yet, something oddly familiar about the layout nudged at his brain. When he spotted the windows of colored glass, it came to him; the palace was a grander version of Farmstead Abbey. Did all the Order’s monasteries model their design after the royal palace of Etheldreda? It made sense, he supposed.

  They trooped into Baldomir’s throne room, where the royal court had already gathered. Courtiers lined the room, and the best-dressed of them formed a semi-circle behind the throne. A steward help up a hand as the Elves approached. They stopped, holding their place. From a door to the side, the king and queen entered; Baldomir took his seat on the throne with the queen standing behind his right shoulder.

  The steward rapped his staff on the floor three times, and a hush fell across the hall. With a wave, he beckoned the petitioners forward. Cyril and Lhinthel approached, while Dagorat, Liberon, and Katrina stayed back with the other Elves.

  Baldomir spoke first. “Honored guests, let me introduce the royal family. Queen Suzanah,” – the queen curtsied – “and our son and heir to the throne, Prince Kasomir.” The young man nodded his head gravely. “Our eldest daughter, Plantagia, and our three youngest, Charlona, Cyrene, and little Carltomir.” The little boy waved solemnly, then grinned up at his mother.

  Lhinthel eyed the children in turn. “I am pleased the time-honored tradition of naming male heirs to honor Hladomir is still practiced.” She tilted her head and stared at Plantagia, then moved closer and cupped the princess’s cheek. “You bear the face of Etheldreda.”

  Plantagia accepted the compliment with a smile. “And I hope my years of study and practice also give me her ability to fight and command with wisdom.”

  Lhinthel moved back to Cyril’s side. “Great king, we bear grave news.”

  Baldomir cocked his head. “Grave news? The return of the Elves should be a day of glad tidings.”

  Cyril exchanged a glance with Lhinthel. She gestured with an open palm, inviting him to proceed. “Agents of the Golgent have stolen the Orb of the First Light from the monastery in Mentiria. We weren’t able to stop the thieves in time, and the Orb must be in the hands of the dark mages by now. An attack on the city is imminent.”