A waving hand from the far side of the dragon caught Bently’s attention. One of the soldiers was signaling him to come over. Several of the soldiers were gathered near the left wing, examining something on the ground. Their urgent whispers spurred Bently to come closer.
Bently trotted to meet the men, giving the dragon’s slavering maw a wide berth. “What do you have there?”
The men parted, revealing what lay at their feet. Half-covered by the dragon’s billowing wing was an elf. His body was contorted in an unnatural manner. His chest plate was nearly inverted; it appeared as if someone had taken his body between a hammer and anvil. The tri-rays sigil of Luthuania was nearly indistinguishable.
Waymire needed only a moment to evaluate the situation. “We must leave this place with all haste.”
“What?” stammered Bently, not understanding. “Why?” His hand shifted to the ivory handle of his sword, and he looked about the forest as if they had stepped into an ambush.
“Do you not recognize who that is?” asked Waymire, redirecting Bently’s gaze to the moribund elf. The general’s eyes were filled with concern. “That is High Lord Rancor.”
“How is that possible?” Bently curiously examined the injured elf, trying to piece together the clues. “It just doesn’t make...” His words were halted by the sound of scampering footsteps to his rear.
“Drop your weapons, now,” hissed a voice as cold as steel. “Or another breath will not pass from your lips.” Bently grimaced; the thick Luthuanian accent was unmistakable.
Bently hesitated. They were a hundred paces from the resting column of Capernicans. A quick call would bring dozens of men running. But as his mind considered the options, shifting shapes suddenly came into focus all around them. Cloaked figures, their faces painted shades of green, began to emerge from the shadows of the trees. Their cloaks seemed to change colors with each step they took, at one moment green, then gray, then vibrant emerald. Bently sucked his teeth. They were surrounded by two score, at least. “Damn rangers,” muttered Bently. He dropped his sword.
The Capernican soldiers surrounding the dragon needed no second bidding. They were outnumbered two to one. The rangers fixed their bows on the gathering but kept their distance. Their commander was the only one who came forward. He was adorned in glistening silver armor. His flaxen hair was tied back in a collection of knotted tresses. His face was narrow, beset by a pair of glowering eyes that were fixed squarely upon Waymire. His bow was poised for the general’s heart. Upon seeing this, Bently stepped before his commander, blocking the elf’s line of fire.
Waymire pushed Bently aside, and raised his hand to show no ill intent. “Don’t be foolish,” said Waymire, directing his speech at both Bently and the hostile elf. “We had nothing to do with this, Prince Desperous. We came upon this scene only moments before you did.”
“Hold your lying tongue,” snapped Desperous. His face was a mask of pure rage. “Your trickery will not stay off your execution.” He snapped his head, signaling to several of his men.
The elves rushed to Rancor’s body and began to frantically cut free the leather bindings of his armor, exposing his chest and legs. His chest was a purplish hue, and his left leg was bent grotesquely. The bone bulged beneath the flesh. “He’s not dead, and he may yet live. But time is of the essence,” reported one.
Noticeable relief overcame Desperous, and the scowl momentarily slipped from his lips.
“Prince Desperous, I can see the keenness of your father’s eyes in you,” said Waymire in a beseeching voice. “Find wisdom! You know the scene before you makes no sense. We could not have done this.”
“Yet you stand over my brother’s body,” said Desperous, his ire suddenly returning. “We are far beyond the time when I would trust the lies of your people. No, sir, your chance to explain has passed. You will not find mercy in me.”
Waymire stared intently into Desperous’s eyes and bared his chest. “Then kill me, soldier. Exact your cowardly revenge. I have seen my king die and my homeland on the verge of being conquered. I wish to live no more.”
Desperous hesitated for a moment, lowering his bow and approaching forward a few steps. “I hear sincerity in your voice, but it will not stay my hand for long. Quickly, tell me what you mean.”
It was the moment Bently was waiting for, and he moved with shocking speed. In the blink of an eye he swatted aside Desperous’s bow and spun, coming around to the elf's rear. He planted a dagger firmly against Desperous’s throat. The elf didn’t so much as flinch.
Bently spoke loudly into the elf’s ear so that all could hear his message. “Order your men to lay down their arms, and let General Waymire speak.”
The Capernican soldiers looked longingly toward their dropped swords. The rangers stood with their arrows marked squarely upon the chests of their enemies. All waited on edge, holding their breath for their leader's next command.
“Lay down your weapons,” said Desperous in a surprisingly calm voice.
The rangers did his bidding, and Bently removed the dagger from his throat. Everyone let out a sigh of relief; the crisis was averted for the moment.
“Now, General Waymire,” said Bently, as he released the elf from his grasp. “Explain to them what has become of Caper.” Bently kept his dagger in hand. Likewise, the prince kept his bow. The balance was maintained, and this seemed to satisfy everyone.
Waymire held the prince’s gaze. The weight of death and fate hung on the man’s shoulders, and when he spoke, his voice was low and pained.
“Have you seen evil, Prince Desperous? True and dire evil? I have oft in my life thought I beheld such a thing, but what I have seen now has proven that all before was simply a mockery of things to come. The darkness I have seen stands as a towering menace, and we are lost.
“Nigh on a fortnight ago, Manherm was besieged by winged beasts who stood like men but had the faces of serpents. King Johan gave the enemy a name, dragoons, children of the Wyserum. He spoke of them as if they were death embodied. Still, the good king rode out to face them. He was captured. Then suddenly the dead walked. It was beyond any nightmare of plague. Armless men, headless men, men bereft of all honor. They rose and came upon us with terrible strength, tearing down the city gates. So we fled, surrendering the city to its fate.”
Bently was overcome by the memory of crying voices and the endless shuffle of dead flesh. He could see the distant gleam of a willow beset by fire, its branches curling like the tendrils of a dying beast. With each word Waymire spoke, the memory became more vivid. Bently hung his head in shame.
“With what men I could muster, we fled for the Nexus,” continued Waymire. “But as we drew near, we found that the gates had been thrown asunder. There were bodies, more than the entire population of the city, stacked in great mounds. It was as if all the catacombs had been emptied. A pestilence hung over the land, and even my guard, most brave amongst men, would not face the field of the dead and attempt to enter the city.”
He sighed. “We have journeyed east ever since, and on that road we came upon a dying man. He was of the Nexian garrison. He spoke of his city’s fall and the great enemy that had come. He knew what the dragoons sought. They have come for the Orb of Azure.”
A gasp rose up from the gathering at the mention of the fabled Orb, and as Waymire finished speaking all stood breathless, save Desperous.
The Luthuanian prince showed no sign of emotion over the general’s harrowing tale. His hazel eyes remained cool, calculated. “How many men are in your company?”
“Nearly two hundred.”
“And how many of those require medical assistance?”
“Upwards of twenty,” reported Bently, finding his own voice. He sheathed his dagger.
The prince nodded in appreciation and returned his arrow to its quiver. “Assign a man for every injured soldier,” said Desperous. “They will accompany us to Luthuania. The remainder will stay here and watch over the dragon until help can arrive. I’m not granting yo
ur men access to our city until your claims can be confirmed. You’re coming with us, general, to serve as collateral to ensure the dragon remains unharmed by your men.”
“A fair trade,” said Waymire. “But I must protect more than just my men. Lady Manherm is in our train.”
“Evelyn Manherm?” exclaimed the prince, in unrestrained surprise. He mastered his shock, his face returning to a mask of indifference. “The Lady will be my guest. I promise no harm will come to her. We will leave as soon as High Lord Rancor can be moved.” With his edict finished, he settled in alongside the elves tending to his brother and conversed with them quietly.
CHAPTER
VI
A HOPE IN THE NIGHT
It was past nightfall by the time Thatcher and Marshal landed in a clearing deep within the forest of Luthuania. The change of season had yet to arrive here, and the bare limbs of alder trees hung overhead like the arms of reaching skeletons. Half a dozen dragons were gathered in the clearing. To the last drake, all fell silent the moment Thatcher and Marshal landed, dropping their heads and shifting their glowing eyes askance. The elders knew nothing of hiding their emotions in their creaton guise, and all had the same grave expressions plastered across their stiff faces.
“What has happened?” demanded Thatcher. He transformed to his creaton guise in a single spry step, and bounded to the nearest elder. Thatcher clutched the elder’s shoulders so that he could not look away. The elder met his gaze with muteness. Thatcher frantically went from one elder to the next. Each gave him the same silent reception. Finally, his eyes caught a faint glow emitting from the depths of the woods.
A woman in a long white dress approached between the boles of the silent forest, skimming across the ground with unseen steps. Her curls of shimmering red hair and luminescent eyes burned like a gleed in the night. A flame of hope, perhaps.
Goose pimples overran Thatcher’s frame. A foreign feeling for a dragon. He reached out to the spectral image. “Camara, what has happened?”
Camara’s porcelain face curled into a grimace as she stiffly embraced Thatcher. She was the most ancient of all the Batofew clan. Her wisdom was renowned, as were her healing abilities. Today she looked drained of both. No, much worse, thought Thatcher. She is drained of spirit. Drained of hope.
“Much has transpired, my precious broodling.” Her voice rung like a bell in the night. “Grievous news, grave times.” She looked to her mate for support, but Marshal’s face was downcast; it seemed he had already pieced everything together. She continued. “Dain Baelac and Dai Horan were attacked by dragoons.”
Thatcher’s breath caught in his throat. His stomach burned.
“Your father was gravely injured,” continued Camara. “I’ve been fighting to heal him all evening. Some maddening poison has seeped into his blood. Elandria’s skies are not far from his eyes, but he may still survive. His wounds are severe and my energies are sapped. We must now wait. Another healer is flying in from the east, but haste is everything.” Her voice trailed off.
“And of my mother?” asked Thatcher quietly. The twinges of dread were already settled deep within his burning stomach. He looked to Camara longingly, hoping she would not say what he expected to follow.
She choked on the response, and embraced Thatcher tightly. His cheeks moistened with her tears. He tasted salt and realized he, too, had begun to cry.
A gentle hand settled upon his shoulder, and he discovered Dai Ferrivo standing at his side. “We found the site where the ambush took place.” He paused shaking his head, troubled by what his following words would imply. “But we couldn’t find Dain Baelac’s body, Thatcher. The field was singed, an obvious sign that her energies were purged, but we could not find her body.”
• • •
The commandeered carriage bounded along the rutted dirt road, bouncing and squealing as it went. Desperous grimaced with each jolt. Rancor’s bloodshot eyes had shown no sign of life when they had found him. He was far gone. The internal bleeding had run too long without check. Desperous cursed himself for not having a proper healer in his company. The court magic was Rancor’s only hope.
“The horses, they can take no more,” called the carriage master from his bench. The half dozen draft horses foamed at their bits in utter exhaustion, their hides flecked in saliva.
“The horses be damned,” cursed Desperous. “If this is their last passenger, so be it.” He rode along the flank of the draft horses, spurring each one on with the flat of his sword. They cried in terror, plowing mindlessly onward. There came a flutter of light above the tree line, the evanescent flare of High Tower’s flame.
Hope, thought Desperous, there is still hope.
Waymire rode beside him, driving his stallion to its limits. Desperous could not guess if the man followed so closely out of obligation, or the fear that he might be left behind and lose his precious cargo to his age-old enemy. The woman in the carriage seemed to be oddly dear to the general. Lady Evelyn Manherm. Desperous contemplated her merit. They had called her mother the Witch of Stone Keep.
They broke through the tree line and continued on, galloping past dark farm houses and barren fields. Half a league away the ramparts of Luthuania danced with torchlight. He could dimly hear the wail of a warring horn. A moment later a dozen lancers rode out from the city’s gate, set on a path to intercept the carriage. But when they drew near and spied Desperous’s gilded helm, the lancers wheeled about and charged abreast with their prince. A trumpet blared to clear the way.
As soon as they reached the city gates, Desperous could tell something was amiss. The gray turrets that topped the twin towers of the barbican were crawling with archers. Sprawled across the road before the gatehouse were dead and dying men. Vacian Acolytes were working frantically to aid some, while others were clearly beyond saving.
“They began coming in an hour ago,” yelled a captain from beside the gate. “Ambushed north of the Jasmine. They say it was the dead and the winged beasts.”
Desperous cursed. Waymire nodded knowingly beside him.
A path was cleared through the injured, and the carriage entered the city of Luthuania. Although it was well past midnight, the streets were filled with people who had been drawn to the gatehouse by the commotion. The swelling concourse slowed the carriage’s progress to a crawl. The citizens rose up in a woeful cry. “The high lord has died!” lamented a voice. “No, but very close,” called others. They fawned at the sides of the cart, hindering its passage. Desperous plowed through the crowd with his horse, holding out his hand to keep the press at bay.
“All in due time,” said Desperous. “The high lord needs only to rest.”
His words were no comfort, and a strident cry could be heard above the din. “Then it is true. War has found us, and our leader has fallen.”
Temple bells knelled mournfully in the distance.
The carriage rumbled on, bouncing along the disheveled brick road that cut through Old Town. In the ancient city the new was built atop the old, layer after layer, so that it became a collage of buildings, plazas, patios, and terraces. People rushed to their windows and gathered atop roofs, desperate to see the procession. Desperous ordered the carriage master to stop for no one, and the carriage plowed forward with celerity. Onlookers were sent skirting out of the way of pelting hooves.
They flew past the dwarven quarter. The gilded eaves of the Golden Bazaar overshadowed them for an entire block, its kiosks stuffed to the brim with wares from Hedrotria and Karu, the Watsoto Plains and the wastes beyond. The district smelled of the perfumes and spices they hawked within its walls. Bearded men looked on from the stoops of their caravans, sucking at engroot, while squat children chased after the carriage. An undulating cry resounded in their wake, invoking the Creators to come to the aid of the high lord. Desperous quietly thanked the landless people for their faithful ways.
Finally, they reached the city’s chief hill. The horses strained to pull the iron carriage up the steep grade. Red brick mansio
ns flanked them on either side. Lords and ladies in pristine dress began to collect upon the columned porches that ran adjacent to the road, drawn from their parlors by the sound of wailing horses. Many of these households would sooner see Rancor dead, thought Desperous, as he eyed the onlookers with contempt. Most were likely pondering how they might profit from the emergency.
The gates to the citadel of High Tower were wide open, the portcullis raised. Palace guards nervously greeted them at the entrance to the royal estate. Desperous alighted his horse and threw open the carriage door. He gingerly lifted his brother from the floorboards. Rancor’s body was warm, and some of the color had returned to his face. Rancor blinked at his brother in recognition, and squeezed Desperous’s arm. Then he was gone, hustled within the royal apartment by the assistants of the court magic.
Jotham waited nearby. The court magic was clad in black leather that made him almost invisible in the dark of night. He was cracking the joints of his spindly arms and lithe fingers as if he were about to participate in some great athletic feat.
“It’s a wonder he has fared so well,” said Desperous in disbelief of his brother’s replenished state. When Desperous opened the door to the carriage, he had half expected to draw out a corpse.
“Yes, there is hope,” said Jotham with assurance. “The stars are right. The Creator is on our side.” The magic began to massage his own throat. Desperous swore the man’s eyes changed color with each shutter of the lid; now green, now blue, now yellow.
“Nothing of the high lord’s condition is to be told to anyone other than me, understood?” Desperous stuck his finger in the human’s face to emphasize his point.
“Let me be with my patient, my lord,” said Jotham. “I would never dream of betraying your trust.”
Desperous consented, and waved the rangy man off. Everyone had a price, and certain duplicitous lords would pay a pile of gold caps to know how the high lord faired. Already, he could make out the dim outline of spies skulking about the palace gate. Desperous ordered that the gates be closed, then turned to Waymire.
The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2) Page 6