The scowl on the captain’s face revealed much of his temperament, but he said nothing more.
Nochman looked over his shoulder into the darkness of the alcove. “Dai Thatcher?”
Surprisingly, a voice replied from within the gloom, causing Evelyn to jump in her seat. A hulking figure materialized against the far wall. He wore a rust-colored robe and stood so still Evelyn had mistaken him for a tapestry. “My father does not yet reside within the skies of Elandria,” said the figure. “For now that title remains in his possession.”
“Of course, my apologies, broodling,” replied Nochman.
The stout man emerged from the shadows and leaned on the back of a chair. It creaked under the strain of his weight. “What would you request of my clan?”
“As you know, Coralan is located far beyond the horizon to the west,” answered Nochman. “Our ships will never reach its shores; we need a winged ride. Can one of your people fly us there?”
“I will serve as an escort, but I fear my size will not allow me to be a suitable ride.” Thatcher silently pondered the dilemma for a moment, thumbing his chin with a hand the size of a lion’s paw. “I will send a message to Burrowing Hall immediately. I am positive a certain elder will be happy to accompany the mission.”
Evelyn would never have guessed this young man, with his stern jaw and blue eyes, was a dragon. His creaton guise was perfect, the best she had ever seen. His unaccented speech was without a hint of foreignness. The only thing unusual about the man was his size; he was nearly a head taller than everyone else.
Nochman gestured outward to all gathered around the table, having brilliantly orchestrated everyone to meet his aims. “In three days our embassy will depart for New Halgath. King Salmaen will surely grant you an audience, although it may take some negotiating to receive an ambassador for your journey. Two weeks from now your party will gather at the south gate of New Halgath.” He looked to Thatcher. “You will be capable of securing a suitable ride by that time?”
“Certainly.”
“Then we will break for now.” Nochman clasped his hands together. “We all have preparations to make and duties to attend to before day’s end. May the gods protect us all on this most righteous endeavor.”
“May the Creators bless our path,” called out a unanimous voice from all who were present. Even Evelyn found herself mindlessly reciting the prayer. It was a common phrase among the faithful, but seldom was it spoken by so many races for one cause.
CHAPTER
X
THE EMBASSY
Bently was awakened by the sounds of the forest. The fire at his feet had been reduced to sputtering embers by the drizzling rain. Thatcher was missing. The pile of leaves upon which the dragon had been sleeping were still dry. He hadn’t been gone for long. Bently gazed into the surrounding forest sleepily. There was no sign of the dragon, only the endless stalks of trees reaching into the darkness. He closed his eyes, shivering against an unnatural chill.
The titter of a child’s laughter rung through the still air.
Bently’s eyelids snapped open. Standing a dozen feet away was a women in white. Her back was turned to him, but even so, he recognized her immediately. She was draped in a nightgown that hung loosely over her body, exposing the pale flesh of her shoulders and back.
He crossed his heart. “Only an apparition,” he told himself.
Slowly she turned, her auburn hair swaying across her back, her long fingertips thrumming against her thighs. Her bare feet were a quilt of bruises and cuts from trudging through the forest without shoes. Bently couldn’t take it, and he jumped to her side, grasping her battered feet. Her flesh was like fire. He ignored the impulse to recoil.
“My sweet Maya.” He brushed leaves and caked blood from between her toes. He knew he shouldn’t look up, but he had to. He always had to. Bently’s breath caught in his throat. Her chest was a hole, her lace gown a sea of red. Bently stifled a cry.
“Only an apparition,” he repeated, his face writhen in horror. This was how the necromancer taunted him.
She reached for him plaintively. He tried to take her hand, but for some reason she scorned him, remaining just beyond the reach of his trembling fingers. Then he noticed her eyes. Her eyes were like pools of quicksilver, her eyes were that of the necromancer. Bently shook his head. The necromancer does not know. How could he? My family is safe. He kept repeating that to himself. My family is safe.
She opened her mouth, as if trying to speak, as if trying to warn him. But only blood came out. So much blood he might drown.
Bently awoke drenched in sweat.
Thatcher was lounging across from him. The dragon looked at him with eyes that twinkled like starlight. Bently girded his back against the tree and pulled his blanket tightly about his neck, hiding his face in its folds. He shivered sleeplessly against the cold.
Morning came without dawn. A pall of gray clouds hung low over the ageless forest, blinding the sun from the world. The long galloping thrum of thunder rolled from horizon to horizon. A steadily increasing drip began to clatter through the canopy of trees. Bently rose and wiped the salt from his eyes. His breath burst from his mouth in clouds of mist in the chill morning air. He vainly tried to beat some warmth back into his limbs as he went in search of the others.
Desperous and his men were already awake, busily tacking their horses on the nearby trail that bisected the forest. The rangers moved with deft motions, everything was quick and silent. Desperous nodded at Bently upon seeing that he was up, then continued about his tasks. Words were a rarity from the prince.
Bently lifted his own saddle from the ground with a weary grunt and hoisted it upon the back of his horse. The horse nickered with displeasure.
“No rest for men or beasts,” said Bently, rubbing the horse’s withers. The horse gave him a sidelong glance that showed a hint of understanding.
They headed south.
Bently had hardly slept in the three days since they set out from Luthuania. Each night it was always the same nightmare. He was certain he was calling out in his sleep. The rangers were kind enough not to point out his cowardice to his face. But when they conversed in Talsa Ew, he understood enough of the language to know that they spoke of him poorly. Too oafish, too slow, too loud. Bently shrugged. They were probably right about most of these things.
Thatcher walked beside their progression in his human guise, refusing to mount a horse. Bently had feared Thatcher wouldn’t be able to keep up, but to his surprise the drake walked with such lengthy strides he seemed capable of outpacing the horses. They made good progress, traveling a dozen leagues or more each day.
The pristine trees of the southern ador were considered sacred to the Luthuanian people; thus they had never been harvested. The trees were as old as time, with trunks so wide a pair of men could not link arms about their base. Their knotted branches jostled with one another in their endless race to reach the open expanses of the sky above. All other life was choked out by their greed, and hardly anything lived on the sunless forest floor. It was silent, eerily so, and Bently couldn’t help but feel there was a certain menace to the forest.
Around midday the light rain gave way to fog. Everything vanished behind a swirling screen of gray and white. He could hear the clatter of the Jasmine long before the river came into view. The galloping waters were black in the dim light. An ancient stone bridge sprung from the trailhead, crossing the expanse of the river. It dripped with moss, and its keystone was crumbling with age. Bently was surprised to find it without a garrison.
“Hail!” called Bently, as they drew near. There was no response, only the relentless churning of water about the weathered stone pillars. He eyed the bridge circumspectly. Something wasn’t right.
Desperous dismounted and knelt near the mouth of the bridge, examining the earth carefully. He stuck his fingers to the path. Lifting them he revealed they were stained red. Blood, and recent at that. The rain would have washed the bridge clean had it been f
rom the night before. Bently’s hand instinctively shifted to his hilt.
Desperous shook his head, signaling there was no need for alarm, and directed the cavalcade to the edge of the trail. He set two fingers to his mouth and blew. Bently would have mistaken the noise that resulted for a bird’s call had he not seen the elf whistle. There was a warbling call in reply.
A ranger materialized beside the path. There were others in amongst the tree branches; wardens of the frontier. They wore clothing made to resemble bark, and Bently found that if he did not focus they would disappear within the undulating textures of the forest.
“Prince Desperous,” said the soldier as he saluted. “Three dragoons came through last night, and another pair this morning.”
“Scouts?”
“I believe so,” said the elf. “Still others have attempted to swim the river, emerging here and there along the bank. My bowmen have been busy.”
Desperous nodded. “The enemy watches the far side of the river?”
“Yes,” said the elf. “They have set up camp at the old mill.”
This seemed to mean something to the prince, and he was quick to give his command. “At dusk my guard will cross.”
The elf nodded sharply and went off to pass the word to his men.
The two dozen riders of their party set off across the bridge as the light of day began to wane. To Bently’s surprise, they did not accompany the rangers, but instead stayed behind on the north shore. As soon as the riders disappeared down the road, black shadows began to stir on the far bank.
“Dragoons,” muttered Bently. He ran his hand over the scar that furrowed his face from brow to cheek.
Beside him, Thatcher glowered at the serpentine creatures. His hand curled into a fist, and Bently swore he saw claws sprout from the tips of his fingers. Thatcher seemed to hold a special hatred for the dark children; this was one thing Bently and the dragon shared.
“Let’s go while the way is unwatched,” said Desperous.
The three were ferried across the river in a canoe that had been concealed within the reeds. As they disembarked, the two rowers saluted sharply to their prince, and then turned their prows against the current, disappearing into the growing gloom.
Desperous clambered up the muddy bank and knelt at the forest’s edge. “The enemy holds these shores. We are no longer within the safety of Luthuanian lands. We must stay off the trail and be ever watchful.”
They continued south, walking silently into the night. When Desperous suggested they halt for the evening, Bently insisted that they press on. “It would be safer to put another league or two between us and the river,” he lied. The truth was, he would do anything to avoid sleep for a while longer.
• • •
Tyronious impatiently clacked the claw of his big toe against the floor, letting the foolish whelp have his say. It was important to let Demetry feel as if he were in control; he could never know that he was just another weapon in Tyronious’s arsenal, at least not yet. Unfortunately, the semblance of power was making the necromancer drunk. And worse, the voices were making him mad. A combustible combination, no doubt.
“Why waste my men?” said Demetry. He sulked before Tyronious, enthusiastically motioning with one hand and then the next. “Let us press Luthuania to the irons now, and be done with it. The sooner, the better!”
“Patience,” said Tyronious. He gave Demetry an impassive look.
This only further enlivened the querulous magic. Demetry’s lip quivered with a sudden rage, and he turned his attention toward the adjacent wall, envisioning something there that no one else could see. He nodded his head in somber agreement, and reeled on Tyronious. “I do not need patience,” he corrected, pointing his finger emphatically. “I need that Orb in my hand, you blighted fool.”
Tyronious looked at his chieftains. They were lined shoulder to shoulder near the entrance to the chamber. He could sense their embarrassment, but due to their obedience they made no motion to address the affront. They knew their place. He whispered to them in the recesses of their minds; in time all insults will be paid for with blood.
Demetry spun, sending the tail of his purple cape in a swirling plume. He haughtily mounted the Throne of Caper, as if he had not been given that very seat by Tyronious. From his stoop he glowered angrily at his court, addressing all in a belligerent tone. “A sensible plan is all I ask for. And any plan that leads away from Luthuania is not sensible.” His lip twitched.
Tyronious smiled inwardly. Minds are so easy to break. He rose from his stool and half-bowed. “It is too late to turn aside, Your Grace. For now we must abide by my plan, not the misguided scheming of the Nexian Order.”
“Sire Tyronious,” called an aged voice.
Luca Marcus lifted himself out of his ostentatious chair. The chair, encrusted with purple velvet and gemstones, was set beside the foot of the dais; a seat of high honor. He approached Tyronious with halted steps. “The goals of the Order are no different than those of your people. We desire to solidify our position in this world. We must justify our existence and free ourselves from exile.”
He continued speaking, but Tyronious ceased to listen; he began to grind his teeth. Every time the proconsul opened his mouth Tyronious wanted to take his head off. It would be an easy matter. Four quick strides across the room and then a swipe below the jaw line. The head would pop off like a ripe apple from the limb. Of course, that would be if the damned phirops couldn’t act in time. There were always a half dozen of them following Demetry and Luca Marcus around like faithful hounds.
Tyronious threw back his stool, causing Luca to choke on his words. “Your goals may be identical to ours,” hissed Tyronious, as he approached the proconsul with a cocked head. “But your allegiance to the cause will never be the same. If we fail, my race will be hunted to extinction. If you fail, your pathetic cult will simply do what it always has; slither back into the shadows, and disappear until a more favorable time arises.” His teeth clashed inches from Luca’s face.
Around the room, men shifted their hands to the hilts of curved blades. Tyronious wished they would try to intervene.
“We will see this through,” said Luca Marcus sternly.
“And what if at the end it comes between you and us,” said Tyronious. He drew his clawed finger down the man’s forehead, and tapped it upon the tip of his bulbous nose. “Which one of us do you think the enemy will be willing to treat with? The stakes are not the same, and I will not be made a fool by your betrayal. Prove your worth, then I will consider your opinion.” With a snarl, Tyronious stormed from the king’s chamber.
Luca Marcus had only arrived a month earlier, but his words were already beginning to poison Demetry’s mind. Tyronious bristled with rage.
“Sire Tyronious,” a gravelly voice called from behind him.
Tyronious grabbed the culprit by the scruff of his neck and dragged him down a dark hall. The other chieftains scuttled along, grateful that they were not the one being wrenched aside. “What have you discovered?”
“Our intelligence was not as strong as we thought,” replied Korre. He quickly backed out of arm’s reach, keeping his eyes on his feet. He did not dare challenge Tyronious’s baleful gaze. “The Order garners far more loyalty than I could have imagined. All about the city, people openly fly the Skull of Stewart in their windows. The Order has set up a barracks within the eastern slums and they are distributing grain, buying the people’s favor.”
Tyronious shook his head in frustration. “The old man’s army will be useful for now, as will his phirops. I just fear they will prove a lasting nuisance in the end.”
“I have already begun infiltrating their ranks,” said Korre. “I’ve been gathering names of local members and their families. We will have collateral when the time comes.”
“Good,” said Tyronious. Love was an intoxicating weakness; the mere threat of butchering a man’s child was enough to cow the most belligerent foe. He patted Korre’s shoulder. “You ha
ve done well, but your service within the city has reached an end. I need you in the field.”
“Anything you would ask of me, Sire.”
“The people of Luthuania have no intentions of going quietly,” explained Tyronious. “They have plans to awaken one of our old friends and set him against Demetry.”
“Yansarian.”
Tyronious nodded.
“How did you come across this information?”
“I have someone within their ranks.”
“Are they trustworthy?”
“I make people offers that cannot be refused,” said Tyronious. “They will hold true to their promise.” Tyronious lifted Korre’s chin, forcing the chieftain to bear his gaze. “You do understand the importance of this mission. They cannot be allowed to awaken the Guardian.”
“It will be dealt with, Sire,” said Korre. Bowing low, he draped his wing blades all the way to the ground in a gesture of absolute submission.
“Good,” said Tyronious. “Make sure it is.”
CHAPTER
XI
IVATELO
The going became painstakingly slow now that they were on foot. They stuck to game trails when they could be found, but otherwise cut their own path forward. The ador fringing the foothills of the Fir’re Mountains still bore the taint of the Scourge. The slopes of the ash-shrouded mountain loomed ominously to the south. They frequented upon black streams of runoff, the water foul and brackish. The poison seemed to have seeped into the ador, and the forest floor lay thick with discarded limbs. Silk funnels filled the boughs of cankered trees, and everything was choked in vines. The forest was devoid of life. No animals, no men, and most importantly no carrions. That was the only thing Desperous could feel grateful about.
He couldn’t help but fret that their quest was misguided. He had urged his father to send someone else in his stead. “The forked tongue of a councilman or the sharp edge of a sword seems exactly what this Guardian deserves.”
The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2) Page 10