Storm of Divine Light

by Ernesto San Giacomo

  “We’ve lost the trail,” Kasomir said. “Perhaps that Guilder lied to us.”

  No. No possibility of turning back now. Dagorat dismounted and studied the terrain. He left his horse in Kasomir’s keeping and trod his way lightly through the mud. Hunched over, he studied every mark, every sign he’d ever been taught to track. Over there – no. The ruts cut too deep for a light wagon. What about – no. Far too large a print for a horse.

  The others waited impatiently in the dark. After ten minutes, Dagorat discovered a different track. He straightened up and pointed. “Here!”

  Kasomir jumped down to join him.

  “Look at these hoof prints. They’re going the opposite direction of the army, headed straight to the Pass.”

  “Then we still have them.” Kasomir clasped his gauntlets.

  Dagorat responded with a clap on the prince’s pauldron. “He’s circled back to the path his soldiers marched. This mess of tracks will take us right to the Pass, and the stronghold beyond.”

  They mounted up and dared a trot, stopping on occasion to double-check their path. After breaking through the mist, they came upon the site of the great encampment near the spot where Dagorat had slain Hamish. The great tents had been removed, and debris marked the desolate site. The quiet was eerie after so much activity two days ago.

  As the first hint of dawn broke, they rode through the Gorthul Pass, also quiet but littered with the remnants of the host’s passage. The growing light illuminated the Golgent fortress in the distance. Despite his resolve, a shiver traveled up Dagorat’s back. The glassy black rock, the demonic carvings, the sharp, angular edges – every aspect of the stronghold shouted, “Stay away.” A great foreboding took root in his heart. He supposed he’d never leave this place alive. But his life no longer mattered to him. If his blood had to mingle with Lamortain’s to avenge his family, he accepted it as an equitable exchange. He held up his hand, and the group came to a halt.

  “I doubt if we’ll find anyone guarding the place,” Kasomir said.

  “What makes you so sure about that?” Dagorat asked.

  “Lamortain came to take Ethelton last night, and make it his new home. Why leave anyone behind if you don’t plan to return?”

  Dagorat dipped his chin. “I hope you’re right. Let’s go find out.” He yanked his sword from its scabbard just in case, and nudged his horse back into motion. They wound their way up to the great gate; not a single orc – nor human, for that matter – emerged to challenge them.

  Together the group huddled at the threshold of the main doors. Some of the soldiers tilted their heads back, admiring the massive gargoyles which glared back down at them. Down at their own level, sconces held torches which cast flickering light on monstrous faces carved into the walls. A wicket gate swung open, spooking the horses with its loud groan. Someone was in a hurry if they didn’t lock that. Dagorat dismounted and peeped in. The rising sun did not penetrate the inky, palpable blackness of the interior.

  One of the elite guards took a torch down from a sconce and lobbed it through the doorway. The light revealed an empty entrance. No guards. Dagorat beckoned the rest down from their horses. “I’ll look for traps.” He grabbed the torch from the floor and led the way inside.

  The lack of windows made the still air heavy, and the drip of water echoed through the empty space. Dagorat’s eye caught something small and light in color, and he froze. Tripwire? He moved his torch closer. Just an old piece of twine. A squeaking rat scurried past him. Surprising. Orcs loved rat meat. How did this one evade them?

  With their shields up, Kasomir and his guards followed him down the hallway until they came to a set of switchback stairs leading down. “They seem to go on forever,” Kasomir said. Dagorat’s head wavered in agreement as he placed a foot on the first step.

  Each landing opened onto a hallway of doors. But Dagorat kept heading downward, reasoning that Lamortain felt more at home in the deep underground. An atrocious stink stung their nostrils at the second landing, and grew stronger as they descended. Follow your nose, Guilder had told them. Some of the soldiers held cloths over their faces, some gagged, and others’ eyes teared. The air reeked of rot and death. Lamortain’s decaying corpse would add to it when Dagorat was done with him. His group, both posse and funeral procession, were determined to deliver justice. Dark imaginings of how it would happen kept him occupied until, after the eighth switchback, the descent ended.

  The staircase opened onto a grand corridor in which horribly twisted stone faces adorned the walls. The flickering torchlight animated the bizarre images. That one blinked. Down the hall, another twitched an eyebrow. Dagorat was tempted to stop, but steeled his nerve. Tricks of the light, nothing more. He led the way cautiously down the hall, crouching here and there, still checking for traps. The thought of Lamortain setting such a device possessed a certain cowardly plausibility.

  The stench of death grew stronger than ever, but the group had acclimated. This final corridor ended at a massive set of double doors. With great care, Dagorat inched up to them and ran his hands over the surface. Nothing popped out to try and kill him, so he gestured the others forward. Kasomir lifted his torch to examine some odd symbols from the Golgent language, and rolled his eyes.

  “You understand what it says?” Dagorat asked.

  “Hope is for the weak. Abandon such notions. Your lives belong to the Master of the Golgent.”

  The soldiers took positions on either side, shields up, weapons ready. Two of them pulled the doors open, and they backed away from the inky black void on the other side. The torchlight didn’t penetrate beyond the threshold.

  A deep voice boomed from within the darkness. “Come in, friends. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Torches on the walls ignited all around the room. A fat, bald, gray-skinned man sat upon a throne of skulls on a dais at the far end. That must be Lamortain. Dagorat supposed he meant to look regal, but in reality he resembled a great, oversized slug. His hands glowed with a faint blue aura. A woman stepped out from behind the throne. She had the same gray skin and bald head as Lamortain, and wore layers of extravagant, flowing robes. Her hands bore a red glow.

  “You see, my dear Xantasia,” Lamortain said. “I predicted that few, if any, would follow. A dozen of our rather more stalwart Easterlain friends.”

  A lustful leer crossed Xantasia’s face as she stroked Lamortain’s shoulder. A disgusted shudder started in Dagorat’s shoulders and wriggled its way down his spine. How revolting.

  “A shame we must kill them all.” She pointed to one of Kasomir’s guards. “May we keep that one? He looks like he could keep us entertained for many evenings.”

  The guard in question let out a sickened cry and rushed the throne, pike lowered to run her through. In a flash, lightning sprung from Lamortain’s hands, coupled with a ball of fire from Xantasia’s. Their attack ended the guard’s advance – and his life. His charred and smoking corpse sizzled, reminding Dagorat of the smell of rancid bacon. The tip of his pike clanged on the floor.

  “Who shall be next?” Lamortain asked with calm confidence.

  Kasomir stepped forward, head held high, his mirror-like sword held at his right side. “Me! I challenge you to single combat.”

  The monster studied the young prince. “Your armor seems different from the rest.” His fingers rubbed his multiple chins. “Far too young to be Baldomir. Yet that is the royal crest of Easterly on your breastplate.” He paused in thought. “You must be Kasomir.”

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Dagorat circled left, inch by inch, in an effort to get behind the dark mage without being noticed. Possibly his best chance for a surprise attack. He ran his thumb along Frostbite’s hilt. Yes. A stab in the back would be most fitting.

  Xantasia glided her hand over the throne. “Hmm. This skull is cracked, my Lord. He’ll provide a fine replacement for it.”

  Lamortain stood, and his lips writhed into what must be meant as a smile. He thrust his glowing left
hand forward and shot a lightning bolt at Kasomir. The prince snapped his sword up, flat across his chest. The lightning reflected off the gleaming surface and back at Lamortain, slamming him into his throne. He shook off the stun, stood again and pointed an incriminating finger. “Fire will roast the flesh from your bones!”

  Xantasia glared at Kasomir with seething eyes. “How dare you attack the master? You will all burn for this!” But before she could raise her hands to summon her power, the hem of her robe combusted. A moment later, the rest of her clothes burst into flame. Her arms flailed wildly, and she screamed as her flesh burned. A noxious smoke filled the room, making them all gag. Dagorat stood, transfixed on the flames. What had happened?

  Ah. There, behind Xantasia, stood a girl wearing only a loin cloth, with a torch in one hand and a small stone statue in the other. In her agony, Xantasia wheeled around and spotted her. “You little bitch!” She lunged at the girl, as if to make her join the pyre. The girl struck the sorceress in the forehead with the base of the statue, bringing her to her knees.

  Erratic streams of fire shot from Xantasia’s hands, blasting the walls. The Easterlains took cover, crouching behind their shields.

  The girl let out a scream of naked hatred and pummeled Xantasia again, laying her flat. Three more vicious blows to the head silenced her for good. The room fell quiet as the flames feasted upon the body. For some moments, the girl stared at the pyre, face twisted with disgust. But then it softened into relief, and tears filled her eyes. She peered up at Kasomir. Dropping the bloodied figurine and torch, she covered her blood-splattered bare chest and ran towards the prince. Falling into his arms, she whimpered, “Help me.”

  “Who are you?” Kasomir asked. He ripped off his cloak and threw it around her shoulders.

  “I’m Sudalya.” She rested her head on his shoulder and sobbed. “From Dun Ragell. They took me from my family and – and did horrible things to me.”

  “Nobody can hurt you now,” Kasomir said. He patted her awkwardly on the back.

  Touching, but Dagorat still had unfinished business. He shifted his attention back to the throne. It stood empty. The fat slug must have slipped away in the commotion. “Where’s Lamortain? Where did he go?” His grip on Frostbite grew so fierce, his knuckles hurt.

  Sudalya’s shaking hand pointed to a door behind the throne. Dagorat beckoned to Kasomir. The prince released the girl and strode over to him. Together they flanked the door, and Dagorat flung it open. Using the throne for cover, one of their guards peeked into the chamber beyond. “No one in there.”

  Dagorat led the way into a garishly opulent, gaudy room. A massive bed, decked with overstuffed pillows and a gold-threaded coverlet as puffy as a cloud, dominated the room. Lavish jeweled goblets, gold plates and tableware lined a low table set up as a sideboard. Bas relief panels depicting lewd scenes covered the walls. Some of them – well, Dagorat glanced away, not caring to know exactly what was happening to that goat.

  Kasomir flinched away from another particularly nasty illustration. “Horrible things, indeed. That poor girl.”

  How could Lamortain escape from this room? There were no other windows or doors. Dagorat probed around – behind and under the bed, behind that tapestry, even knocked on the walls. Nothing. “There must be a hidden exit.” He continued to search, but Kasomir’s gaze kept drifting through the door toward Sudalya. “You can’t help me. Go to her,” Dagorat said. The prince strode off toward the beautiful half-naked maiden.

  Dagorat searched for over two hours, probing the walls for a secret passage. He scoured every inch of the floor, even got up on the bed to examine the ceiling. With each passing minute, his fury grew. Katrina’s voice filled his head, begging for justice. The thought of his unborn child, the one he would never meet, blinded him with pain. Frostbite whispered to him, begging for blood. A brief thrill of hope lit his heart when he found a hidden room behind one of the erotic panels, but the feeling evaporated when it turned out to hold a cache of valuables. After a time, Katrina’s voice faded, and the only emotion left to him was exhaustion. He collapsed onto the bed, jaw aching from two hours of clenched teeth. It was done. Lamortain was gone.

  Kasomir came in to check on him. Seeing that the search was over, he plucked a golden dinner plate from a stack and offered it to Dagorat. “The spoils of war.”

  He snatched the plate and flung it across the room. “I was so close.”

  The open panel caught the prince’s attention. “What’s in there? A passageway?”

  “Lamortain’s treasure.” How odd. Not so long ago such a bounty would’ve made his heart sing, but now he cared for none of it.

  Kasomir went to the door and gestured to his guards. “Gather all the valuables and put them in the abandoned wagon we found outside.” The men went to work, and the prince pulled Dagorat to his feet. “You’ll feel different about things tomorrow.”

  He doubted that, but had no strength left to argue. Kasomir strode over to a strongbox at the foot of the bed and flipped the lid open. An excited gasp escaped his lips. Dagorat peered over the prince’s shoulder. “Such a bounty. Your father will be pleased.”

  Easterly’s heir plunged his hand into the pile of jewelry and found a shimmering golden necklace bearing a large emerald. He eyed the green stone in wonder. A playful grin crossed his face, and with a swift decisive step, he marched over to Sudalya. His eyes filled with feverous appraisal as he placed it around her neck. “This gem hardly matches the beauty of your eyes.”

  Maybe Baldomir wouldn’t be so pleased after all…

  CHAPTER 28

  FULL CIRCLE

  DAGORAT AND HIS ENTOURAGE MOUNTED their horses and left the Golgent stronghold behind. Two of the guardsmen hitched their steeds to Lamortain’s abandoned wagon and pulled it along, laden with treasure. By dusk, the towers of Ethelton broke over the horizon. As they closed the distance, details from the aftermath of the great battle became visible.

  A great number of monks and soldiers toiled on the plain, clearing it of the dead. Shrouds covered the Easterlain bodies awaiting a proper burial, while massive pyres disposed of the Golgent corpses. Those who had fallen from the power of the Orb had already been swept away, their ashes mixed into the soil or scattered by wind, but plenty remained. Piles of captured enemy weapons and shields dotted the scene.

  For most of the journey, Dagorat had languished in a haze of despair. But now he had a decision to make. His momentary comrade-in-arms from the wall, Bandoras, had recognized him and wanted him dead. Perhaps the eccentric bandit had already spread word that he’d seen Blackmond Moonshadow. Not many would believe a crazy man like Bandoras, but some might. If just one person believed and repeated the tale, then the story had already spread. Perhaps even into the ears of a city guardsman or constable. No, he didn’t dare enter the city.

  The thought struck him that he’d never be able to visit Katrina’s grave, if she had one. More likely she’d been burned at one of the pyres. He closed his eyes and swayed with the horse’s motion. Why wasn’t he sobbing at the idea? Maybe he’d grown immune to life’s cruelties at last. After all the death and thwarted dreams over the past few days, it would hardly be surprising. But was it a blessing or a curse? He shook his head and focused his eyes on the road ahead. For the time had come to forge a new path. Dagorat broke away from the group and rode straight for the bridge over the Queen’s River.

  Hooves pounded up from behind, and Kasomir rode up to his side. “Where are you going?” the prince asked.

  “Home.” Not exactly true. Without Katrina, he doubted he’d ever feel at home anywhere. And the place he planned to visit hadn’t been his home for decades. But a convenient lie was always a good answer when pressed with an inconvenient question.

  Kasomir studied him, and must have recognized Dagorat’s reluctance to divulge any more information. He held up a hand. “Farewell, then, my friend. May the Light guide you.” He wheeled his horse and cantered off towards his city. Dagorat would miss him; p
rince he might be, but the lad had a good and brave heart. He’d make a good king someday.

  Two miles past the river, he found a glade off the road and set up camp. Alone in the vast expanse of night, memories of Katrina plagued him. Skittering thoughts skipped through his mind about their first fight, their first kiss, their wedding. The fond musings brought forth a fleeting moment of joy. But then he thought of the blood that covered her as she died. The despair etched on her face, and in his heart, at the loss of the baby. How close they had come to having a normal life. Then how close he had come to revenge before even that had been stolen from his grasp. Was there anything left for him?

  The cheerful chirping of birds, backed by a gentle breeze whispering through the trees, created a pastoral symphony that penetrated his sorrow. A growling hunger prompted him to light a fire and eat something. Thankfully, they had filled their saddlebags with foodstuffs before leaving the stronghold. Not trail rations, either; Lamortain certainly believed in living the culinary high life. He dredged through a bag for some stuffed capons. To his surprise, he discovered two solid gold dinner plates and a diamond ring. Dagorat’s mouth twitched in a half-smile. This would help in the journey to come.

  After a rest in this glade, he’d venture north to Dun Targhill, his family’s home. He wondered what he would find.

  ***

  A great feasting ensued in Ethelton Palace, where Cyril celebrated with the others. He tore into a roast bird and gulped a sloppy swig from a mug of ale. Somehow, the food tasted better than any of his favorites, except, of course, for Lilly’s Silberian eggs. He stared wistfully into his drink; then someone clapped him on the back and roused him to the present. The musicians had struck up a merry tune. Cyril couldn’t clap with the roast bird in his hand, so instead he tapped a foot and hummed along.