The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2)

by Lee H. Haywood

  Nochman had bashed his objection. “Politicians are too weak for such a mission. And a common soldier is much too crass. We cannot falter in our task; neither torture nor pain can imperil our resolve. This is your duty, Desperous. I can trust no other man to see it through to the end, no matter the cost.”

  “And if something else happens?”

  His father had no answer. That was the fear that gnawed in the back of Desperous’s mind, growing with every step he took further afield. What if Rancor doesn’t mend? What if the council grasps for control? What if my father’s greatest fear is realized?

  Bently cursed under his breath as he yanked a thorny limb from his side. “By the gods, I’d pay a fortune to be on the back of a horse or sped away on the wings of a dragon right now.” He swatted another limb aside with a grimace. “I’m simply not made for this type of travel.”

  “You’ll be flying soon enough and wish that you were not,” said Thatcher. His rustic robe was drawn tight around his face, only revealing his two luminous eyes. Desperous thought he saw a hint of a smile. “Anyway, it would seem you two are ripe for a good workout. City life has left you both fat and stringy.”

  Desperous gave a light chuckle to the remark.

  “Fat and stringy,” scoffed Bently, in mock offense. “I may appear a bit stocky, but I promise you I’m nothing short of stone.”

  “Fat or not, you’re too heavy for me to carry.”

  Bently laughed heartily, but Desperous couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a forced gesture. The poor man draggled after them like a drunkard; each step was taken as if it were a chore. He had ceased trying to sleep, always volunteering to take first watch. Whenever Desperous awoke, he would spy Bently pacing endlessly in the night, staring wistfully into the darkness. There were demons tormenting the man far beyond what his stoic demeanor revealed.

  A deep thrumming in the earth broke Desperous’s train of thought. He jerked his hand in the air, stopping their progression midstride. He cocked his head, trying to hone in on the sound.

  Thatcher looked at him, stunned. “You hear something?”

  Desperous nodded. The clamor of teeming feet and the creak of rotten bones.

  “How is that possible, I hear...,” Thatcher halted his voice, suddenly focusing in on the noise. His face twisted in concern.

  Bently wrapped his hand about his ivory hilt, and began to unsheathe his broadsword.

  “No weapons,” said Desperous. There would be no fighting against what he was hearing.

  They crept forward with as much stealth as possible. Thatcher led the way, and Bently followed close in tow, struggling to emulate the deft motions of his companions. Desperous winced each time the ungainly man snapped a twig or rustled brush, certain the noise would draw the attention of the enemy. But his fears were unfounded. As they grew near the commotion it became apparent that any effort to stay quiet was pointless. Beyond a thick hedge grove came the heavy thunder of plodding feet and belting orders; whatever sound they produced was a whisper in comparison.

  Desperous snaked his body through a tangled web of undergrowth, halting at the ridge. He stifled a gasp. The carrion horde marched down a mud-churned road. They stood five abreast, stretching beyond view. Desperous tilted his head in an attempt to see how far the enemy went on, but was quickly jerked back by Thatcher.

  “Be careful,” hissed Thatcher. He pointed farther down the path.

  Several dragoons came into view. They were barking at the carrions, goading the docile creatures to hustle forward. Desperous suddenly realized why. Lumbering like giants at the rear of the pack were dozens of dragons marching along in single file. Their shredded wing membranes grated against the ground, turning over the soil like a farmer’s plow. Their rib cages and bones showed prominently through their black pebbled flesh. Scales as thick as armor hung askew on their flanks. Perched in a saddle atop the neck of each was a dragoon, spurring them on with barbed lashes.

  “I never imagined such horrors were possible,” whispered Thatcher.

  “Dark children and carrions,” said an aged voice. “Evil times, bred by evil men.”

  Bently and Thatcher snapped their heads in Desperous’s direction. Desperous stared back at them blankly; he hadn’t said those words. He spun to see that a figure had sidled up alongside him.

  The man perched himself atop the ridge, gaining a better view of the congregation of dead. “Such devastation,” said the man. He shook his head, sending his scraggly unkempt beard swaying from side to side. He possessed the darker complexion of a Kari. His eyes were heavily lidded, partially concealing hazel irises flecked with yellow. He was ancient, crowned with a hoary head of hair, and a visage freckled with age. “I am Ivatelo,” said the man in a congenial tone. He reached out to Desperous in greeting.

  Desperous grasped the man’s arm in camaraderie, but a concerned look pursed his face. “What are you doing here? You should not be here.”

  “No one should be here,” added Bently.

  The man waved them off dismissively. “I have no concern over my own well-being, but I do propose you three seek refuge in my home until this blighted parade passes. They’ve been at it for some time now. It’s hard to guess how much further they stretch. Leagues, I’d wager.”

  With that said, Ivatelo backed out through the underbrush. The trio had to act quickly to keep up with the man’s brisk pace.

  Leading them to a clearing, Ivatelo revealed his home. It was a modest one-room hut with a low slate roof. A single door and window adorned the front, overlooking a small garden, freshly tilled and prepared for the upcoming season. A clay pipe protruded through the roofline, spouting puffs of black smoke into the otherwise blue sky. Ivatelo opened the front door and beckoned them to enter.

  A small table, a black sooty stove, a few shelves, and a bed were the only furnishings in the man’s meager home. “Welcome to my humble abode,” said Ivatelo. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if presenting something grand.

  Bently flopped down beside the stove and began to warm his hands. Thatcher leaned against the door jamb, not letting down his guard. Desperous shuffled around for a moment, trying to find a place to rest his weary body. He found there was only a single chair in the home, and decided it would not be advisable to take it. Instead, he joined Bently on the ground and leaned his back against the bed frame. From there he could spy all angles of the home. Everything looked very orderly. That, in and of itself, made Desperous uneasy. It was out of place in these woods. It felt unnatural.

  “Do you live here by yourself?” asked Thatcher. He eyed the forest outside through the oddly crystalline window, making sure they hadn’t been followed.

  “Just me and my garden,” said Ivatelo. He began to busy himself preparing some drinks on the stove. “It’s a self-imposed exile, really. I do my reading and till the soil from time to time. But having some company is always welcome.”

  “We appreciate you taking us in,” said Desperous. There was something unusual about the man, something innate that Desperous could not quite identify, and he found himself immediately unsettled by the man’s presence. In many ways, Ivatelo resembled a vagabond; the hem of his woolen travel cloak was stained with filth, and beneath Desperous spied a tunic and breaches that were little cleaner. Yet the intonation of his voice and the polished motions of his body possessed the decorum of a nobleman. Penury juxtaposed with refinement. Something was out of place.

  Ivatelo handed out clay cups of steaming tea, graciously waving off all offers of help. “It seems to be a dangerous time. Which leads me to my first question; what exactly are you three doing together? I see before me a Luthuanian, a Capernican, and another man of questionable race.”

  Thatcher cocked his head in surprise. “You recognize me for something other than a creaton?”

  “One of the dragon folk, I presume,” said Ivatelo, taking a sip of his own drink. “In my youth I dealt a great deal with your clan. Avofew, I imagine. Eventually there was no mista
king your kind from the rest.”

  Thatcher did not confirm the man’s assumption, nor did he deny it. He silently resumed his pensive vigil beside the window.

  “Ivatelo,” said Bently, accenting the name. “It sounds less a name and more a title to me.”

  Ivatelo grinned. “A scholar and a warrior. What a pleasure. It is rare to meet a man so well-versed in the language of Talsa Ew these days.”

  Desperous raised an eyebrow, genuinely shocked that a human would know a word of Talsa Ew. He had taken Bently for nothing more than a mindless sword; he would have to reevaluate his opinion of the man. “You can speak the ancient tongue?”

  Bently smirked. “I picked up a little bit from the Yanish Brothers when I was a child, that’s all.” He nodded toward their host. “Ivatelo more or less translates to ‘old one’ or ‘wise one’.”

  “I much prefer the latter translation,” said Ivatelo. “But I fear the children meant the first when they gave me the name.”

  Desperous began to disarm himself, setting his quiver and bow to the ground.

  “What a wonder to behold,” exclaimed Ivatelo, as he set his own cup aside. His eyes were narrowed on the bow. It made an odd shape wrapped in its leather case.

  “My bow?”

  “That is Valerius’s Blade, is it not?”

  Desperous grinned at the comment. “How would you know of such a thing?” The bow was an heirloom of the House Farsidian, granted to Nochman as a dowry when he married Marylyn Farsidian, the sister of Luthuania’s co-founder. Desperous, being the oldest of Nochman’s two sons, was granted the blade when he assumed the marshalship of the military.

  Ivatelo performed a bow. “I had no idea I was in the presence of royalty.”

  Desperous nodded sheepishly. “I am the son of Nochman. But I disclaim myself from any noble lineage. I am a servant of the state.”

  “Spoken much like a man of your father’s line.”

  “You know my father?”

  “No, certainly not,” said Ivatelo. “But I am well-acquainted with his edicts and writings. ‘A man born into privilege has no privilege save to serve his people,’ I believe those were your father’s words.” He waved off the conversation and motioned toward the bow. “Would you mind if I look at the weapon?”

  Desperous removed the cover, revealing the complex weapon beneath. An arched redwood staff was studded by brass roundels on either end. From the roundels sprouted a pair of curved blades that ran along the face of the bow. He carefully held the bow away from his body and performed a practiced snap of his wrist. In the blink of an eye, the two blades were suddenly in motion, spinning outward at a rapid pace. They came to a stop perched vertically on either end of the bow’s shaft. The weapon had transformed into a sizable pike, headed on either end by a curved blade. The two blades were not quite the same; Desperous had always thought this odd. One of the blades was unblemished, as if newly cast, while the other appeared tarnished and notched from age.

  Desperous passed the weapon to Ivatelo, who gingerly ran his fingers along the ornate face of the weapon. There were several pale stones laid into the blade, but as Ivatelo ran his hand over them, they suddenly became luminous, giving off an unnatural blue light. Ivatelo withdrew his hand as if it burned.

  “Astonishing,” gasped Ivatelo. “The fabled weapon of the gods.”

  “What do you mean by that?” inquired Bently.

  “The Razorwind,” explained Desperous. “This was once a weapon of the Wyserum.”

  Bently eyed the weapon as if it were a poisonous snake. He silently crossed himself.

  “I think the enemy has passed,” said Thatcher, piping in. “Their footsteps have moved some distance down the road. We should go while the way is clear.” He looked to Ivatelo. “Thank you for taking us in.”

  “My pleasure,” said Ivatelo. “Whatever effort has united the three of you would seem a worthy cause. If there is any way I might aid you further, please ask.”

  “We appreciate the offer, but we are well enough,” said Desperous. He rose back to his feet and collected his bow. He was happy to be parting ways with the odd loner.

  Bently groaned as he stood. “I can only hope Taper has proper lodging. I won’t be able to tolerate another night sleeping on the ground.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be venturing to Taper if I were you,” said Ivatelo with sudden concern. All stopped and focused on the old man.

  “Why is that?” asked Thatcher.

  “That road over yonder,” said Ivatelo jerking his thumb toward the carrion procession. “It only goes one place.”

  “They’re marching on Taper?”

  “There’s nowhere else they could be heading,” said Ivatelo. “The road runs through the center of the village, then from there it’s another two days to New Halgath.”

  “Blessed Guardians,” murmured Bently.

  “I have to warn them,” said Thatcher. He glanced at Desperous and Bently, a look of deep urgency set upon his face. “I’ll fly to Taper immediately and warn the magics of the coming onslaught. I will meet you both at New Halgath in three days.” He clasped each of them firmly on the shoulder. “Be quick and stay unseen until you arrive to Halgath. I wish you safe travels.” Then Thatcher was off, dashing from the hut. He transformed in the clearing, and took to the sky, flying east.

  “He’s a brave soul,” said Ivatelo shaking his head sadly. “May he have his wits about him. This will surely be a trying time.” He then smiled. “Well, gentlemen, you two will need to leave soon enough, but perhaps I can send you on your way with full stomachs.”

  Bently was holding his belly longingly. “A morsel of food would be preferable to walking on an empty stomach.”

  Desperous knew they should be going, but his stomach curdled at the prospect of continuing without a proper meal. He nodded in approval, giving in to their basic needs. He took up Thatcher’s spot beside the door, keeping one eye on their mysterious host and the other on the darkening forest beyond.

  CHAPTER

  XII

  RANCOR

  Rancor never realized one could be so high. The waxing moon looked as if it were settling over the sea, a lurid gleam of white against tepid grays. Still they plummeted, bursting through the thin layer of cloud wisps. The forest splayed out before him, a blanket of undulating blackness.

  “I failed you,” Rancor moaned. He reached toward the distant flare of High Tower, a speck on the horizon. “I’m so sorry I failed you.” His deluded mind imagined he could spy Nochman standing at the balustrade of his porch, curling his lip in scorn.

  Rancor desperately beat at Horan’s hands. The dragon was crushing him like a vise. Beside him, the child issued a helpless guttural cry that would soon be extinguished by death. The forest welcomed him like a bed of razors.

  Rancor awoke from the nightmare with a start, rising in his bed gasping for air. He was drenched to the bone.

  Jotham sat at the foot of his bed. He glanced up from the book he was reading, raising one eyebrow in a droll manner. “More terrors, my lord?” The court magic lifted a porcelain kettle and began to fill a cup lackadaisically. “A bit of lavender with a touch of engroot should do the trick.”

  Rancor waved the fetid concoction off. He had no interest in falling back to sleep. He gingerly ran his fingers along the yellow flesh of his chest, noting how prominently his ribs stood out beneath his skin. He sat himself on the edge of the bed, wincing with each labored motion. Bone grit against bone. He sighted the length of his leg, and scowled at the grotesque bow. He feared he might forever walk with a halt. Jamming the handle of his crutch into his armpit, Rancor lifted himself upright.

  Jotham prattled on about the merits of bed rest. When it became apparent that Rancor would not listen, he shrugged, having met his obligations, and happily went back to reading his book. Rancor grunted discontentedly at the worthless court magic and hobbled from the room, slowly limping his way toward the palace library.

  Each step was a painstaking
process, and he could only manage a few paces before needing to halt and master his discomfort. Jotham recommended he allay the pain with engroot; Rancor absolutely refused. What numbs the body numbs the mind. Jotham was probably on the payroll of one councilor or another. He felt there were few men of merit whom he could trust anymore. But that, in all reality, had always been the way it was for Rancor.

  The Order’s Revolt and the subsequent war between Capernicus and Luthuania began while Rancor was a young child. From that point forward his father had become aloof, dedicating all his time and energy to the war. Rancor knew his brother little better. Desperous was years older, and had already taken on the marshalship by the time Rancor was born. Rancor grew up at his mother’s hip, always in desperate want for someone to guide him into manhood. Those lords old enough to remember Rancor as a child recalled the weepy-eyed brat who clung to his mother’s knee. They regarded him with thinly veiled condescension. He possessed a woman’s heart and a temperament to match, they would whisper. The wrong brother had ascended to the throne, others would say. Rancor feared they might be right.

  Rancor entered the palace library to find it abuzz with activity. Nochman had commandeered the entire building, making it serve as his own private war room. Throughout the chamber scholars were busily combing through books. No one so much as lifted an eye when Rancor entered the lobby.

  He found his father in one of the alcoves, surrounded by a collection of scholars. Nochman was thoughtfully thumbing the jewel that hung from his neck. Nearby, one of his attendants slid a collection of black tiles across a map showing troop movements. No one had bothered to share any of this information with Rancor.

  Nochman held up his finger in a gesture that implied he intended for Rancor to wait. To make his mood apparent, Rancor threw his crutch onto the table, sending a shattering crack echoing from the stone vaults of the ceiling. Everyone froze in place, looking quizzically at their high lord. Rancor’s glare told them to go away, and they quickly complied, hastily collecting their materials and shuffling beyond earshot.