Nexus Moons: Book One of the Tales of Graal

by Ron Root

  A creature?

  A dragon—there’s a living, breathing dragon here at the Nexus site. Its Gift astounds.

  A dragon? Yet another pause. To see that wonder would require sight—which I have no longer have.

  I should never have helped you with that foolish experiment of yours. This is my fault.

  Bah! You speak as if I had no say in my life’s choices? Did I merely live in your shadow? You always were one to take blame that wasn’t yours. No, you cost me nothing. Had it not been for my own folly, I’d still be there in the flesh. Say no more of such things.

  Do you know where Zakarah went?

  A long pause. He’s with me.

  No, you’re with me.

  Yes, both things are true. I’m with you; and with Zakarah—at the place where he captured me.

  The first Nexus?

  Yes, he’s there now.

  How did he get there?

  He opened a portal. I heard him cast the spell. He’s come to steal the university’s relics. He hopes they’ll help him survive in that hell he brought me to.

  Do you remember the spell he used to open the portal? Can you recite it?

  Have you ever known me to forget a spell? Yes, I remember it, but it requires a facet neither of us owns.

  I have someone here who might be capable of casting it—someone from the university.

  Who?

  Hagley, the young fellow hoping to be granted a third try for his robes.

  If he can’t even earn his robes, how can he possibly cast a spell this complex?

  Because he’s a Pervader—capable of casting any spell.

  Really? You’re sure of this?

  I am. He’s here with me now.

  One more thing; a body of water is needed in order to open the portal.

  I understand. Thank you. Here’s Hagley now. Teach him the spell.

  “You heard, Hagley. Learn the spell.”

  “Just because I’m this Pervader person doesn’t mean I’m capable of opening a portal.”

  “You’ve said the same of other spells, and none has surpassed you yet. You can do this.”

  “Right, just talk with a dead man who lives in a piece of jewelry while learning a spell that only a half dozen wizards in the world could master—oh and cast it successfully.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I’ll try, Sir.”

  Lavan recited the spell over and over until Hagley knew it by rote.

  Thank you. I’ll try to devise a counter to this, Jarek offered, to prevent Zakarah from using it again. Placing Lavan’s amulet around his neck he said, Goodbye my friend, I’m keeping you with me. May we someday be together again on the other side.

  Do not rush that meeting. The other side’s not nearly what it’s made out to be. Defeat the bastard instead.

  Nervous, Hagley turned to The Magus, seeking direction. Eyeing the dragon, Jarek gave him the headmaster’s necklace. “Put this on. It might help communicate with the dragon.

  Communicate with the dragon! Was he jesting? “Why?”

  “Lavan said water is needed to open a portal. That means we need to get past that thing, and get to that pond. Now, how about you exploit this bond you seem to have with this beast and see if it’ll allow us by.”

  “How?”

  Jarek faced him. “By asking it.”

  He was serious? “What if it eats me?”

  The Magus shrugged. “Then it’ll eat the rest of us once it’s done with you. I can do the asking if you prefer, but it’s far more likely to kill me than you. How well off will you be if that happens?”

  Hagley shuddered at the thought. Becoming a magus no longer held the appeal it once did. “All right, I’ll try.”

  He headed toward the dragon, Jarek at his heels. The dragon’s huge eye watched their approach, unblinking. Back in A’ryth, Hagley was sure nothing could frighten him more than facing Zakarah, but the dragon had just proven him wrong.

  So far it had made no overt threat. The closer they got, the more imposing the beast became. He could hear the dragon’s heavy breathing, and smell its putrid breath, likely from chewing on rotting bultúr flesh. Even lying down, it was several times Hagley’s height—much larger than the bultúrs, both in thickness and height.

  He took a deep breath, and heart pounding, edged even closer. Was this bravery or foolhardiness? He looked down at the grisly remains of the bultúr. He scrunched his face, unable to imagine eating such a thing.

  Prey.

  He flinched, startled by the unexpected mind-speak. “Yes, very dead prey. Was it tasty?”

  “Hagley!” Jarek chastised, “I doubt it will understand human speech. Use mind-speak.”

  Was it tasty?

  Tasty?

  In man-speech, it’s when we eat something that we find pleasing.

  Man-speech?

  The sounds we humans make in order to share our thoughts.

  “It’s the noise I’m making now.”

  The dragon cocked its head, studying him.

  What should we call you? What is your name?

  Name?

  Conversing with this creature was tedious. When your prey see you, what’s in their minds?

  One-Who-Hunts comes!

  Of course, you hunt them. Hunter would be a good name for you.

  Its monstrously large eye blinked. Hunter.

  “Yes, I shall call you Hunter.”

  “You named it?” Jarek squawked. “Stop wasting time and get to the point.”

  The dragon glared at Jarek. Did it understand human speech?

  “Ask ‘Hunter’ how Zakarah bested him. How he managed to steal Hunter’s prey? Was Zakarah’s magic too powerful for him?”

  Snorting, it turned its attentions back to Hagley. Eat prey; sleep. Wake. Prey gone.

  “Tell him we want to bring them back,” Jarek urged.

  Can?

  It definitely understood him. “Yes, we’ll bring back your prey,” Jarek promised, having no idea how that could possibly be done. “But to follow he who took them, we need use of your pond.”

  The dragon’s huge eye flitted from him to Hagley. Then, lying down, it closed its eye, as if suddenly having lost interest in them. Had it just granting them permission?

  “Well, Hagley, may we?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then let’s do this before that thing gets hungry again. After all, there’s not much left of that bultúr.”

  Jarek waved the others over. They came, albeit cautiously. Once past the beast, they hurried to the pond.

  “Now Hagley, before your new best friend there changes his mind.”

  Hagley spoke the spell. The waters before them shimmered a blue green, glowing like Llochán de Cumhacht had done upon Zakarah’s arrival. At its center was a whorl of shimmering water, reminiscent of a cyclone Hagley had once seen, albeit this one was made out of water. Within it was a hole wide and tall for a man to walk through.

  Gresham let out a whoop. “You did it!”

  Hagley grinned. “I did, didn’t I?” He looked at Jarek, “Now what?”

  “What else? We go through it,” Jarek said, wading into the glimmering water. The instant he stepped into the swirling vortex, he vanished. Gresham went next. The others followed, with Hagley going last. Before he stepped into the waters, he turned to face the dragon. Gramercy, Hunter. We go to find your prey now.

  Prey!

  Hagley’s next step had him spinning and whirling, flying out of control in a tunnel of nothingness. He soiled his pants.

  Chaos

  Quinn entered Marshal Booker’s office and found him sitting at his desk, his nose buried in papers. “Sir!” he announced, saluting.

  The Marshal looked up. “Yes?”

  “You asked that I keep you apprised of the Inquisitor’s plans.”

  “And…?”

  “The Chevaliers show no signs of readying to leave. In fact, they practice maneuvers
as we speak.”

  The Marshal stroked his beard, contemplating this new information. “Thank you. I know you have regular duties, but I’d consider it a personal favor if you’d continue to keep an eye on them for me. Report anything out of the ordinary directly to me.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “That will be all.”

  As Quinn turned to leave, the Marshal’s aide burst through the doorway. “Apologies Sir, but you need to see this. Right away!”

  Quinn followed them outside. The sergeant pointed toward the long line of people streaming into the fort, all looking disheveled. “Who are they Sergeant? Why are they here?”

  “Most are from Pembok. Others come from as far as Eynshawkshire and Holyshire. They claim their villages have been besieged by devil monsters. They talk of human slaughter.”

  “Get Captain Dyson. Now!” The Marshal turned to Quinn. “You get the Inquisitor. Tell him we need his troops.”

  Quinn started to leave. “Wait!” the Marshal barked. Weren’t you part of the Inquisitor’s Portsmouth escort?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Good, he knows you. Tell him that since his people are unfamiliar with our island, I’ve assigned you as his Cornet and guide. We might as well get an eye-witness accounting of his Clerics’ skills.”

  Quinn delivered the message, and before long, both church and garrison cavalries were mustered in the fort’s main yard. Quinn sat saddled beside Grand Inquisitor Kolton, or more accurately, ‘Aren’t-I-Grand’ Inquisitor Kolton. Quinn had never met a man so enthralled with his own self-grandeur, which was undoubtedly why Quinn’s father so unabashedly curried his favor. He was on the Inquisitor’s other flank, fawning over him. “Your Grace, are you ready to show these godless beasts what happens when they test the righteousness of the Church and the steel of the Kingdom?”

  Having to deal with two such vain men tried Quinn’s patience, but if he could bring down this pompous buffoon by spying on him, perhaps it would be worth it.

  The Inquisitor sat taller in his saddle. “Well said, Captain Dyson. It’s time the people of this island see God’s wrath in action. Shall we proceed?”

  His father nodded, as if acknowledging an equal. “Your Grace, Kinsmen’s Highway splits into three forks at Pembok. Perhaps it would be best if we split our force there.”

  Deftly done father. Not only did you assert your strategic brilliance, but you prefaced it with ‘perhaps,’ properly deferring to one of superior rank. The pandering continued.

  “Since reports say Broughton is all but deserted now, why don’t I take my men to Eynshawkshire and root out the devils there, while your troops rid Holyshire of its vermin? Quinn knows the road well and will prove a most able guide.” His father looked over at him. “I’m proud of you, son.”

  As you’ve told me so many times in private. Quinn tipped his head. “And I of you, father.”

  Looking regal, his father spun his horse about and led his guardsmen out the main gate. As soon as their dust settled, the Inquisitor’s force followed, Quinn among them. He spied Marshal Booker watching from his doorway. Quinn nodded as he rode past. The Marshal smiled and went inside.

  Anxious-looking peasants streamed past them on either side of the road, seeking the safety of the fort. But by the time they reached Pembok, not a soul could be seen—the town was deserted. “Which way, Cornet?” the Inquisitor demanded when they reached the three-way fork.

  “The road left goes to Eynshawkshire; the right one to Holyshire. Broughton is straight ahead.”

  “Captain Dyson,” he shouted to Quinn’s father. “What say you take your troops that way,” he said, pointing toward Eynshawkshire, “while I go this way, and as you so aptly stated earlier, root out these godless devils.”

  His father nodded, and the two cavalries parted ways.

  They were almost to Holyshire when they first encountered the so-called devil monsters. Monstrous creatures, the likes of which Quinn had never seen, came charging out of the woods from either side, their beastly snarls and growls sending chills up his spine. The creatures charged, racing toward him on all fours. When they reached the horses, they rose on hind legs, mouths open, attacking with tooth and claw. One bowled into his steed, the force of its attack knocking his horse back a stride or two. Mouth open, with jagged teeth as long as a man’s thumb, it lunged at Quinn’s thigh, but a swift spin by his warhorse drove its heavy buttocks into the beast, tumbling it aside. A scream to one side of him told him not all riders had been so fortunate. His horse reared, kicking the devil beast’s face as it tried to rise. Quinn drove his Cornet’s lance into its open mouth. It let out an agonized bawl as the blade sank deep within its skull, spewing reddish gray gore in all directions.

  Having dispatched it, he spun the horse around, seeking other attackers. One had sunk its fangs into the upper arm of the lancer beside him. The man’s horrified scream parroted that of the beast Quinn had just killed. The devil shook its head side-to-side, like some hunting hound capturing a kill. Drawing his sword, Quinn drove it through the back of the beast’s neck.

  What had originally been a dozen or so attackers was quickly pared to less than half that. Lancers dispatched the rest in short order. One horse was down, kicking, screaming its terror. A merciful lance ended its agony. Two lancers leaped off their steeds and retrieved its dead rider. Several of their comrades sat slumped in their saddles, bearing wounds.

  A loud ruckus drew Quinn’s attention. A score more of the devils came charging out of the woods, with more following behind. Realizing he was outflanked and outnumbered; the Inquisitor ordered a retreat. The cavalry’s swift horses easily outran the devil creatures, who gave chase anyway.

  They’d been harried by their pursuers ever since, and periodically turned to engage them. They’d dispatch their closest pursuers, then escape before enough others arrived to overwhelm them. This fight then run strategy was all that was keeping them alive.

  Holyshire had been built at the base of Holy Peak, making their escape a downhill chase. Finally, after gaining adequate separation, the Inquisitor ordered his troops to turn about and re-engage.

  Quinn reined in his panting mount, readying for another stand. Sweat dripped off his forehead, stinging his eyes. He spun around, the wind whipping the flag atop his Cornet’s pole. It felt odd to be wielding the Cavalier’s sigil, but a Cornet’s duty was to bear his troops’ standard, regardless of who those troops his flag stood for.

  While near to Holyshire the forest had offered intermittent concealment. Now that they’d reached the plains, they were fully exposed. The Tarangini River lay not far ahead. Fording it would slow them even more.

  “Chief Clerics to the front!” the Inquisitor ordered. Several blue-robed riders trotted to the front of their line.

  Quinn had been sent to spy on Cleric magic. So far, he’d seen plenty of it, for which he was grateful. Without it, they’d have been overwhelmed more than once. Initially, the Inquisitor impressed him as an able commander, but this latest maneuver had him questioning that. He prayed the man knew what he was doing.

  By now the creatures were pouring down the ridge the troops just abandoned, less than a half a league behind. Inquisitor Kolton held up his hand. “Hold! Hold.” Their pursuers drew ever closer; dangerously so. “Now!”

  Arms held aloft, the Clerics began a chant. Quinn’s horse shied as the ground beneath them rumbled. Ignoring their own frantic steeds, the Clerics concentrated on their spell. The smell of horse-lather and fear filled the air as the vibrations crescendoed into a full-fledged quake. Quinn gripped his reins as his stallion bucked and whinnied.

  The hillside the devils were on collapsed. A hundred or so of them fell with it, crushed beneath an avalanche of boulders. When the dust settled, only a few remained.

  The Inquisitor spun his horse around. “Ride!”

  They charged at full gallop until they reached the Tarangini, where they turned to assess the enemy. Those few devi
ls who’d survived the avalanche were giving chase. “Swordsmen to the fore!” the Inquisitor ordered, eyeing their approach.

  That was Quinn’s queue. Drawing his blade, he and the squad he was in charged into a score or so of charging beasts. The fact that this was Quinn’s third such foray this day did little to settle his nerves. At least this time they weren’t outnumbered. The good news was, that despite the beasts’ ferocity, they were as dumb as livestock.

  He and the rider beside him attacked the same foe, which leaped up, trying to unsaddle them. Quinn’s stallion kicked, sending the devil somersaulting. It crashed in a heap. Before it could rise, Quinn drove the sharpened tip of his Cornet pole through its neck.

  He spun around in time to see his less fortunate companion get knocked off his mount by another clawing, biting beast. As they tumbled to the dirt, two lancers came to the rescue. Quinn joined them. They quickly dispatched the devil, and leaping off their mounts, helped the injured man onto his horse, a bloodied arm dangling limply at his side.

  The skirmish was short. A second Chevalier had been downed, as were all surviving enemy. When the sides were even, the devils were no match for the cavalry’s swift horses and the rider’s sharp blades. Two Chevaliers scooped up their fallen comrade, and raced to rejoin the main force.

  The Inquisitor waited, sneering. No pursuers were in sight. “That should keep those heathen beasts at bay for a while. Let’s ford this river and set up a hospital.”

  Quinn decided he’d been wrong about this man. True, he was still vain beyond comprehension, but he looked after his men. None were ever left behind, dead or wounded. Soldiers were always sent to retrieve the fallen. Whatever political intrigue existed between Church and Court was beyond Quinn’s grasp. What counted was that this man was battle savvy and honorable in the field. He could follow such a man—at least until they made it back to the garrison. He wondered how his father’s troops were faring. Did they face devils, too?

  The wounded were laid out in the field. Healers rushed to minister them. Quinn dismounted, offering what help he could. The torn flesh of most of the injuries looked far too severe to survive. He gave them water or encouragement or prayers, whatever he thought best met their needs. When he’d done all he could, he gave way to the healers.