The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2)

by Lee H. Haywood

  The general was stooped beside the carriage, speaking quietly with the remaining occupants. For an instant, Desperous saw inside the shadowy interior of the armored hull, catching a brief glimpse of the young dark-skinned woman within. She looked at him with sheep eyes, wide and frightful. Waymire slammed the carriage door shut, and smacked the side of the hull. The carriage lurched into motion.

  “The lady has had enough for one day,” said the general with surprising sternness.

  Desperous watched the carriage meander toward the guest quarters at a leisurely pace. Why does the general protect this woman with such paternal care? The general’s eyes told him not to press the issue.

  “The hour is late,” said Desperous with a weary sigh. “But the people are right. War has found us. You may rest, if you will, but I am off to seek council with my father.”

  “With Lord Nochman?”

  Desperous nodded.

  “If it is allowed, I would accompany you,” said Waymire. “It is long overdue that I meet Lord Nochman. What I have seen may serve as some guidance.”

  Desperous didn’t need to ask anyone where his father was located. Lord Nochman would be at study in the palace library, as he always was during times of crisis.

  The facade of the library stood barren and dark, tucked into the corner of the royal estate beneath the shadow of the hulking walls. It was fashioned with the same white stone from which the entire complex was constructed, granting it a stately, albeit weathered, appearance. The building had been fashioned in the likeness of a temple, a mocking stroke by his father toward the false gods. It was here that his father worshiped his own idols.

  A lone guard stood before the brass doors with a halberd in hand. “My prince,” said the guard, doffing his steel cap and placing it over his heart.

  “Lord Nochman is within?”

  “Yes. In the basement.”

  Desperous lit a candle from the guard’s lantern and led Waymire inside, past shelves of books and gray pillars of stone. In the darkness, the pillars quickly turned to indistinct shadows. High above, the fanning stonework created a vast, ribbed vault. Stained windows periodically punched the walls. By day they would illuminate the hall in dancing light. Tonight all was dark and silent. Their footsteps echoed in the immense space.

  Desperous found a gate that had been left unbarred. He entered the passage, descending a tight spiral staircase that twisted into the earth. The air grew damp. The familiar scent of mildew wafted up to greet them. This was his father’s bastion. Desperous had spent far too many hours of his childhood down here, dutifully fetching tome after tome for his father as he sought solutions to one crisis or another. Most people would have gladly burned the books Nochman was perusing. Nochman scoffed at such an idea as sacrilege. “The gods did not take all of their secrets with them,” Nochman was always careful to remind his son.

  “Books regarding the Sundered Gods are kept under lock,” explained Desperous as they descended. “Few in our realm are allowed access to them.”

  The path corkscrewed to an end. The room beyond was the blackest of blacks, save a single source of dim flame at the center. A lone figure was illuminated by the glow of an oil lamp. He was hunched over a table with a stack of books laid out before him. Rheumy eyes shifted up to greet them.

  “What has happened to my son?”

  “He is not well, Father, but his light is not yet extinguished.” Desperous performed an obligatory half-bow, and approached the table. “The court magic is with Rancor now.”

  “And you are here before me,” said Nochman. Little but his stern face and hoary head of gray hair could be seen in the wan light. “This tells me things are much more amiss than the High Lord of Luthuania at Elandria’s Gate.”

  Nochman had lived a lengthy life. Born before the War of Sundering, he had founded Luthuania, sitting upon the throne during both years of plenty and dearth. Now, the guidance of his empire had fallen to his second son. Whatever physical strength Nochman had possessed in his youth was beyond him, but a cold, steely sternness hung in his eyes. He sat before them powerless in body, but godly in wisdom and word.

  “The dead walk and skirmish parties of dragoons have been seen within our borders,” explained Desperous. “I have with me General Waymire. He claims all of Capernicus is lost.”

  Waymire remained near the entrance to the room, his expression twisted with ire.

  Desperous sighed. He was foolish to have thought this meeting would have gone any other way. Although this was the first time Waymire and Nochman had ever met, they were lifelong antagonists. The animosity between the two elders was palpable.

  Nochman eyed the general from head to foot, but did not address the man. “Has the general’s claim been confirmed?” pressed Nochman contemptuously.

  “I have only the general’s word,” answered Desperous.

  Waymire scowled, plainly taking umbrage. He was a man whose opinion was typically accepted with the greatest esteem, and his testimony regarded as irrefutable. Desperous noted the general’s indignation, but cared little. After all, he had found Waymire standing over his mortally wounded brother without making so much as a motion to save Rancor’s life.

  “Tell me, Waymire. What has become of Capernicus?”

  The old general rose to his full height and puffed out his chest. “I have seen a dragoon army march across the Soccoto Plains,” began Waymire. “And I have seen legions of the dead rise. Manherm burns, and the Nexus has become a necropolis. All is in ruin.”

  Nochman shook his head dubiously, not even considering the notion for a moment. “Even if all the magics of Taper, the Nexian Order, and the Shamans of Paseran united as one, they could not wield such power over the dead.”

  “Yet it is so!” said Waymire, clearly irked by Nochman’s dismissal. “I have seen it with my own eyes.”

  “The men of Rancor’s guard have seen the carrions as well,” said Desperous. He chose his words carefully, not wishing to challenge his father’s knowledge before the Capernican general, lest he receive a lecture afterward.

  “Then there is something at work here that I do not understand. An anomaly.” Nochman leaned back in his chair and thumbed at his chin. “Necromancy is a draining art,” he explained. “One cannot simply raise the dead and be done with them. Each raised being feeds off the strength of the necromancer to maintain its second life. The most skilled magic might wield a dozen carrions, maybe two, but no more. The voices would break a man’s mind. There is no basis within Laveria for this kind of power.”

  “What of the dragoons?”

  “The energies of the dragoons are weak. They are not capable of higher magic, let alone necromancy. Somehow they are involved, no doubt in collusion with the necromancers. But I imagine they are but a servant to the true power.”

  Desperous leaned close. He was afraid to even say the word. “What if the Wyrm have returned?”

  Nochman sat in silence for a moment, gently caressing an amulet he wore around his neck. Finally, he shook his head. “No,” said Nochman. “It is not them. The Wyserum had unfathomable power, but they had no sway over the creaton form. They were incapable of necromancy. No, there is something here we have not yet seen. Something new, perhaps foreign, or long dormant.”

  “Dormant?”

  “There are things that are unaccounted for in this world. There are truths in legends that have been lost to time. And in a time before time, there were forces at work which shaped worlds; they come to us only as whispers now, but they are watching.”

  Both Waymire and Desperous inquired further, but Nochman would say nothing more. The old patriarch slunk back in his chair. His eyes shifted to his books, and he once again became lost in thought.

  • • •

  The necromancer looked over his congregation of devotees. Dim shapes purged through the darkness; a bone thin arm, a bare chest, a gaunt face eternally set in a grimace. The forest was dark, stiflingly so, and he could feel more than see the presence of his b
lighted horde. The carrions shifted listlessly, driven by an unfelt wind. There was a music about the undead that never ceased; the shuffle of paper dry flesh, the grating crack of an offset bone. Demetry could lull himself to sleep to their incessant chorus. But the faintly glowing eyes unsettled him. The blank stares of a hundred thousand pallid orbs were fixed upon his frame, patiently awaiting their next command.

  Demetry had seen eyes like that before when he was young. The image of his mother’s face bloomed in his mind. The left half of her head swollen with boils. Her unblinking eyes, normally a radiant blue, reduced to a shade of gray. He tried to remember his mother otherwise, but the same image was always conjured in his mind.

  “You could have saved her if you knew then what you know now,” said a contemptuous voice.

  Demetry closed his eyes and inhaled the night’s cool air, trying to ignore the insinuation. The forest brought a scent of familiarity with it, but it was tainted by the noisome reek of death.

  He looked with disgust at the corpse that stood nearby, his first trophy of war. They had dressed the slain king in his finest robe, doing their best to conceal the ghastly wound Tyronious had inflicted. King Johan looked almost as he did when he was alive. Yet his sallow flesh and hazy eyes told another story, as did the black shadow that pulsated fruitlessly about his frame.

  “For King and Caper, I stand ever ready for the test,” said Demetry, in mock reverence to the wraith king. He had sworn the oath in earnest once, but that was years ago, before he was abandoned by the people of Taper. Before he was condemned to a life of terror in Coljack. Before he was granted salvation by Tyronious.

  He drew close and spoke so that only the tortured soul could hear his words. “I’m keeping you here, close at hand so you see everything. Your kingdom unwound, your dreams destroyed. I will make a mockery of you, and when I am done, your name will only be spoken in terror. You will be the monster that lurks within the shadows of children’s dreams, the barbarian whose treachery was absolute. And I will be heralded as the great savior of this land, uniting all the peoples of Laveria as one.” He leaned in close and sniffed the air, recoiling from the stench that choked his nostrils. “You smell of rot, good king.”

  The king’s lips parted, as if to reply. “Cotist rit osasrio re epicaj, tocasis rit rapuss.” The Wraith King croaked in the language of the Sundered Gods as he recited the blighted incantation. Somewhere in the world a corpse rose from the dead. Demetry inwardly welcomed a new member to his flock.

  He fingered a small black stone that hung from a piece of twine around his neck. The well of his energy raged like a fire with each gentle stroke. The cold unyielding stone was in the shape of a splintered crescent, meant to represent the sun rising over the crag of Calaban. It had been the symbol of the Wyrm horde in centuries past. A gift from Tyronious to master the minds of the dark children.

  A breath of air passed Demetry’s ear. “They’re coming.”

  A low rustle sounded in the underbrush. Something was drawing near that he did not yet command absolutely. Demetry turned to discover two dragoons emerging from the darkness. Their coal black eyes were as soulless as the dead.

  “My sire sends his word,” hissed the first of Tyronious’s minions. The throng of carrions tightened about the two dragoons, unbidden, but not undesired. The dragoons looked about themselves with disgust. Their muscles coiled as if they might have to run for their lives at a moment’s notice.

  “The body has been prepared to your directions, Your Grace,” reported the second. He uneasily glanced over his shoulder; a pair of carrions were pawing at his back.

  Demetry nodded in approval, and the carrions collectively shifted away, like a long held breath suddenly released.

  Although Demetry knew the news was wicked, it pleased him all the same. Standing before this ever-growing throng of defiled bodies, he could not help but ponder the cost of the endeavor in which he was engaged. It was a bitter cause, and there would be no salvation for him in the afterlife. But if he could command from a throne of gold on earth, he may yet gain deliverance in life. Demetry smiled and turned, following the pair of dragoons. The forest moaned as the dead draggled in his wake.

  CHAPTER

  VII

  LADY MANHERM

  Evelyn Manherm did her best to balance upon her toes, her arms at her sides, her fingers curled sinuously at her hips. She stood before the grand row of bay windows that filled the voluminous domed hall with light. She felt she might suffocate between the oppressive lash of the sun and the weight of her wool dress.

  “Surely no one expects me to stand like this for the entire meeting,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Certainly they do,” chided Lord Disias. “The Luthuanian High Council is very particular.”

  She could hardly contain her scowl.

  They had fled Manherm without a single item from her baggage. All of her dresses and fine jewelry were buried beneath the ruin of Stone Keep. Good riddance, she thought. She would not pine over lost trinkets. But she needed a dress to appear before the Luthuanian High Council. As Waymire continuously reminded her, she was the last vestige of Capernican authority, and appearances were everything. Disias had to race off to a seamstress to find her something to wear. He returned with an emerald dress, encased by a chain of gemstones that looped from neck to waist then back again. She thought it looked suitable. Disias mumbled something about her looking like a common brothel whore and cursed the Luthuanians for purposefully shaming her.

  “Today we win their trust,” Waymire reminded her repeatedly. “Tomorrow we get what we need.”

  She teetered on her toes, watching with discomfort as the grand procession of Luthuanian lords and ladies filed into the chamber from the adjacent vestibule. She was in awe of their ostentatious attire. All were dressed in brightly colored silks and velvets, their clothes embroidered with a myriad of patterns; chevrons and diamonds, looping vines that twisted into flowers or the antlers of deer. All variety of gemstones adorned their rings and necklaces, and many of the ladies wore golden chokers and coronets. She suddenly understood Disias’s contempt for her own attire.

  The first of the councilors to enter was an elderly man, supporting himself with a red hickory cane. “Lord Melo Tener,” reported Disias in her ear. “The patriarch of the Tener clan. His family has their hand in every working cog of the state.” Guards garbed in the livery of the tri-rays rushed to his side, guiding him with care up the multi-stepped dais to his seat atop the monolithic council throne.

  A rotund man came next, who had once likely been as strong as an ox. His four brawny sons waddled in his wake. “Lord Steflan Vis. His family has guarded the Teeth for a dozen generations. Deep pockets, Your Grace.”

  A young woman entered, arm in arm with a man garbed in a panoply of steel. She kissed the soldier lightly on the cheek, and walked briskly up the dais, taking her seat beside Lord Tener. Her rosy cheeks and cherub face made her seem hardly a child entering womanhood. “Lady Rena Ronin, Priestess of Vacia. She’s elven young, Your Grace. Twice your age, perhaps.” It was as if Disias could read her mind. He nodded to the stalwart soldier that had accompanied her. “General Bailrich Ronin, her brother. That seat is rightfully his, but he abdicated his position to take the oath of service. Their father claims all the Marlan Vale and its tributaries north of Capmel.”

  Lastly, as if purposefully delayed, came a woman in an ivory dress. A gold shawl draped her shoulders, standing in stark contrast to her sable hair, which fell in a braid nearly to her thighs. The plaits of her hair were interwoven with vibrant blue ribbon. She was resplendent, the equal of any lordess of King Johan’s court, and she acted the part, graciously accepting gifts from fawning suitors who stood in great number near the door. She wished all well, passing any trinkets they bestowed upon her to her retinue of servants.

  “There are those on the council who listen, and those who dictate. Lordess Tulea Farsidian is the latter. She is the widow of the late fo
under. Win her favor, and much will be to our benefit.”

  Evelyn smiled at Disias, grateful that their paths had crossed. He had found Evelyn in a disheveled state, tucked in the corner of her iron chariot as she sobbed desperately, pulling her shawl tightly over her head in a fruitless attempt to blot out the awful cries of dying men. Those horrid wails were because of her, she knew, and she couldn’t clamp her hands over her ears hard enough to extinguish the noise. Then suddenly there was Lord Disias, perched on the bench directly across from her. How he had gotten there she could not guess; she had barred the carriage door from the inside. Maybe he had been there all along. Either way, he smirked from ear to ear, a gesture that belied the horrors taking placed beyond their protective cocoon, and wiped at her tears.

  “Listen to my voice, ignore everything else,” said Disias, still wearing that foolish grin.

  He had helped her keep her sanity as Waymire’s guard broke the blockade. His melodious voice drew her mind away from the awful wrack of dead hands clawing against the hull of her carriage as they plowed through the carrion throng. His unshakable smile helped lull her to sleep as the lonely dirge horn resounded night after night, as more and more men succumbed to their grievous wounds.

  Guilt had gnawed at her soul. Each blaring note was like a sword thrust to the abdomen. Waymire believed she was worth it. She was absolutely certain he was wrong. She was a freak, a mistake. She deserved to be hated and reviled by her people. The disquieting thought hung in her mind. But Disias seemed to sense all of her anguish, and he clucked disapprovingly at her self-loathing. “The Weaver has a way of stringing fate such that we blame ourselves. Patience, Your Grace. The path will show itself. You will find your purpose soon, the Creators are benevolent.” Disias had served as her great uncle’s adviser for years, and was a master in the art of dissembling. He was the type of man her mother had always told her to be wary of, but at the time she needed a companion, and she had welcomed his company with open arms.