Demetry felt nauseated as he watched each individual part of the rat take on a writhing life of its own. But the twitching nose was the most horrific. Its frantic contractions caused it to slowly walk across the table. Joshua had placed a knife in Rioley’s gut for that.
“I have no regrets.”
Demetry smiled in gratitude.
The rat was my first, but not my last, thought Demetry grimly, as he glanced over the host that awaited his command. Brother Rioley believed Demetry should have been revolted by the rat’s deathless existence, and for awhile Demetry actually believed in his own damnation. But the Sundered Soul did not grow quiet to him, as Brother Rioley had warned. In fact, what had once been a whisper eventually became splendid music, a divine chorus sent from on high. The simple truth was, Demetry was drawn to necromancy; a sickness, perhaps, but he had long ago ceased worrying about the moral implications of his actions. He took delight in his dance with death.
Still, Joshua was an accident.
Joshua was Rioley’s mentee, and had been kind enough to sneak the remains of Demetry’s pet out of the headmaster’s garbage bin. He was an unhealthy child, undersized, and slow in all matters save the mind. Much like Demetry, he was prone to ridicule by his peers. “Outcasts stick together,” Demetry had told Joshua, as they somberly stood over the rat’s shallow grave. Joshua had dug the hole himself. Demetry was not soon to forget such unexpected compassion. The two became fast friends, and Demetry gradually let Joshua into the dark world he was instructed to suppress.
It was Joshua’s first foray into necromancy that doomed Demetry to prison. They had found a half-consumed deer rotting in a glade a few leagues south of the village. Joshua fumbled with the words from the start, pronouncing the arcane script of the Paserani Haote incorrectly. He made as to start several times, uttering the first rune of a passage, only to suddenly pause and review the text. Demetry should have stopped him then. But as the slight boy took on the uproarious voice of the Sundered Gods, baying to a melody no one else could hear, Demetry found himself entranced.
There was something about the old language that soothed Demetry’s mind. It was a hypnotic tongue, that of Eremor, and he got lost in the musical ebb and flow. He remembered closing his eyes and mouthing the words himself. The passages conjured up images in his head; of life, of death, of rebirth. But suddenly, a jarring word fell into the rhythm that sounded out of place. The enchantment’s hold tumbled away.
A sharp crackle sounded, the death knell of Demetry’s old life. The verse had taken Joshua into a trance and he did not notice. He continued on with the chant. The crackle became a torrent. All the forest began to shiver. Demetry opened his mouth to yell out a warning, but it was already too late.
The spell came undone with terrifying effect, lighting up the entire clearing in a ball of white flame. It started beneath Joshua’s outstretched hands then streaked out with horrific force. Ripples of energy surged through Joshua’s frame, causing his body to whip and roll like a noodle in boiling water. Demetry dove to the ground, throwing his arms over his face. A swath of flying debris was propelled forward by the rupture. Twigs, dirt, and stones hissed by at terrible speed, cutting into Demetry’s flesh and ripping at the cuffs of his cloak. Finally, after several moments of intense chaos, the violence ended. The dust began to settle back to the ground.
Demetry remembered most vividly the silence that followed. A rain of singed leaves fell lazily about them. He could hear each individual clack as they settled to the ground. He found Joshua’s contorted body hugging the trunk of a tree. The boy was deathly still, his head flat against the bark, his red mouth agape, his eyes fixed upon the heavens.
“Joshua?” Demetry called in a hushed voice.
Joshua would never again respond of his own free will. Demetry gave Joshua immortality on that day, even if it was only as a passenger within the recesses of Demetry’s mind. The elder council of Taper condemned Demetry to Coljack for his actions. How his rage brewed within the confines of his cell. He dreamed day and night of his triumphant return. Yet here he was, a king for the dead, and all he could think of was how small and obsolete the village now looked.
“It’s not worth it,” he muttered quietly.
“All land must feel the yoke of our dominion.” Joshua’s voice had been a part of him for so long, Demetry hardly heard his wisdom for anything other than his own.
Demetry nodded dumbly in agreement.
“You stand soundly mistaken if you believe this is not worth it,” said Luca Marcus, thinking Demetry was talking to him. Demetry had forgotten the proconsul was there. Luca hiked the fur lining of his coat about his neck to ward of the evening chill, and glared at the village with contempt. “These men of magic did you a wrong that cannot be justified. You were young, confused. Your failures as a youth were only manifestations of their failures as a family.”
“No,” said Demetry. I was the one who laid my hand on Joshua’s cold pale chest. I was the one who chanted the words. I was the one who issued the command. He remembered Brother Rioley’s plaintive eyes as he lie dying on his study floor, Joshua standing dutifully over him clutching a bloody knife. “I...I did it. I committed the atrocity.” He was unable to hide the quiver of emotion in his voice.
“Only the atrocity of youthful ignorance,” hissed Luca into his ear. “Did you deserve punishment? Yes. But they went too far.”
Demetry clasped his head in pain. This was not how he envisioned it in his head. He had set out from the Nexus steadfast in his goal. But now, more than ever, he questioned his cause. What did these people really do to me? Was I undeserving of their scorn? I made a dire mistake and deserved to be punished. But is Luca right? Did they go too far?
The voices reminded him otherwise. Demetry was young, undeserving of the horrors to which he was committed. Joshua was a fool and had killed himself. Demetry was only trying to save him; there was no fault in that.
Demetry struggled to push all uncertain thoughts from his mind.
“Return as a true champion of the art,” said Luca Marcus. “Your power is unmatched, but they are in the path of your supremacy. Subjugate them, make them beg for your mercy, but do not falter in your cause. Do you think for a second they would grant you mercy? They left you there to rot with the filth of society. Make them feel your pain and your might.”
Luca was right. The elders had always told Demetry he had great potential, and now they would see it manifested in all its horrid glory. They would not be ready for the storm he was about to bring down upon their worthless village.
“I have to do this myself,” said Demetry finally.
“You must go, but not alone,” said Luca. A sudden look of panic filled his eyes. “Let my phirops accompany you. If something were to happen to you, all of this will have been in vain.”
“If I can’t do this alone, then all will have already been in vain,” answered Demetry. A chorus of agreements sounded all about him. His face grew sullen. His eyes narrowed on the village with hatred.
Luca Marcus stepped aside and bowed to Demetry’s will. “May Paseran overshadow your every step.”
Demetry accepted the blessing without conviction. He began down the rutted road, unaccompanied save for the voices in his head. He had traveled this same path countless times in his youth, and he traversed it almost by rote. The heel of his boot suddenly clacked against stone, and he found that he had come upon the cobbled road that ran through the center of Taper. Oil lamps flanked either side of the way, causing the village to glow softly with yellow light. The buildings were mere shadows on his periphery. Their slanting stone facades rose on either side of him like valley walls. His breaths came hard, almost pained, as he passed by childhood memories; the old dormitory, the headmaster’s home, the Yanish shrine where he was forced to pray each day.
At the center of the village square the silhouettes of a dozen figures shifted uneasily. The school elders had gathered to meet him. Each was garbed in a brightly colored robe to
demonstrate their mastery of one arcane art or another.
“Hail!” called a strident voice from the group. “Who goes there?”
“You know who I am,” answered Demetry. His eyes pierced the darkness, trying to distinguish the speaker. “I am your lost son. The one deemed a criminal for departing from the righteous path.” He began to slowly circle the gathering.
The magics nodded. They remembered.
“Demetry. We heard rumors it was you.” The speaker was one of Demetry’s former instructors. An old crone. She wore the sky-blue frock of a diviner.
“We once loved you,” said a man. His robe was embroidered with leaping stags and soaring eagles. “Let us embrace you once again and end this. Come into the light, Demetry. We can make things right.”
“Make things right?” snapped Demetry, rearing upon the speaker. “You had your chance to do that. But instead, you played judge and executioner, you cursed me. Condemned me. I have risen up and stand ready to right those wrongs.”
“Slaughtering the innocent rights no wrong. Lay down your army, it is within your power. You were raised here, you know the wisdom in our message. Return peace to the land.”
“It is beyond the time for peace,” said Demetry savagely. He could feel the Wyrm stone burning against his flesh. He could feel the fire rising.
“If words won’t convince you, then force will have to suffice.” A man in a flame red cloak stepped out before the other magics. He was Hanberg, the nephew of Brother Rioley, a trained battlemage.
“Did you come here to prove something?” challenged Hanberg. “That you are the great man? That you are not just street trash?” He spit at Demetry. “I condemn you. And I applaud the men who sent you to Coljack.”
“Make sure you kill him first.”
The time for debate was over; Demetry couldn’t bear another disparaging remark. Hanberg threw off his fiery cloak, revealing that he wore a suit of armor beneath. The metal was graven with fine script; wards to protect him in combat. So Hanberg is to be their champion, thought Demetry. He snorted with contempt.
Hanberg uttered the runes of a death spell. The air about him began to boil, shimmering like a mirage on the horizon. His strength grew. Clouds blossomed overhead.
Demetry lazily raised his hand and pointed a finger at Hanberg. The man suddenly burst in a spray of mist, painting the onlookers red. All that remained of him were a pair of legs. His torso, arms, and head were simply gone.
The magics were aghast.
“You don’t understand what I have become,” said Demetry, his spirit fluttering between pain and ecstasy.
It was true, they didn’t. Demetry had not uttered a word or murmured a chant. This was a different kind of magic. An old magic. A magic that he had learned from Jeremiah in Coljack. A magic that was forbidden, and a magic that Demetry now turned to his will. He felt like a god.
A howling wind fell upon the center of the village, bringing with it a hail of ice. The magics stumbled and fell, desperately trying to cast wards of protection. But the ice bit as harshly as molten flame, and in a bath of stinging hail and swirling soot the magics shrunk to the ground one by one. The maelstrom grew until it consumed all, toppling walls, and setting the thatch roofs ablaze. Demetry stood amidst the ruin directing the storm like a conductor before an orchestra. They had dared to underestimate his power. It was a mistake short-lived.
CHAPTER
XV
THE FALLEN EMPIRE
Desperous warily eyed the back of Ivatelo’s stained cloak, picking a spot just below the magic’s left shoulder blade. He let his hand shift to the quiver at his hip and impulsively thumbed the feather of an arrow. He pondered if he could nock the arrow fast enough to save himself if Ivatelo turned on them.
Ivatelo hummed quietly to himself, plodding along the trail as if nothing was out of the ordinary. After the fight with the phirop, Ivatelo demanded to know what was happening. Desperous had foolishly explained all; the dragoon horde, the carrion army, and the powerful necromancer at their lead. As soon as Desperous finished, Ivatelo was packing a sack of provisions, muttering to himself about dark children and necromancers. He volunteered to see them safely through to New Halgath. Desperous had objected, disquieted by the man’s demeanor, but Bently had graciously accepted the offer. What troubled Desperous most was that Ivatelo did not even blink in surprise when they told him of Capernicus’s fall. Much too calm, thought Desperous. Much too calculated.
They cut south through the forest in a staggered line. Ivatelo forged a path along an overgrown trail, walking staff in hand. Desperous made up the middle. Bently draggled to their rear. Desperous periodically checked over his shoulder to guarantee the man was still there. Bently had clammed up after the assault, his face had taken on a sallow complexion. Desperous decided not to press the issue. They would be better served if he kept his eye on Ivatelo.
They walked on through the night, and by daybreak it became evident that there was something unnatural about the trail. In the light of day he could see that the path practically ran due south, and at times cut straight through stony hummocks. This was not a game trail after all, but a path forged by some ancient hand.
Sensing his wonder, Ivatelo scratched at the earth with his staff, revealing crumbling red bricks beneath a thin layer of soil. “Dwarven made.” He sighed, with a sad shake of his head. “From a better time.”
Desperous decided to broach the topic that had caused him discomfort since they first came upon the magic. “If we are to be companions for the next few days, it would best if we knew a bit about you,” said Desperous to Ivatelo. “A loner in the southern ador is more likely to be a thief than a helper.”
“Oh?” responded Ivatelo, looking over his shoulder. A wry smile pursed his lips. “I didn’t suppose you would eye a man with suspicion after he saved your life.”
“I am simply being polite,” said Desperous diplomatically.
“I’m not,” chimed Bently. “I served the crown long enough to know that these woods are where people go to disappear.”
“Then perhaps you will judge me with scorn. I was there in hiding, much as you believed,” replied Ivatelo. “I spent my early years in Taper. Later, I was called into service. I gave up a great deal for the Seat of Caper. I did not wed, I had no children I could call my own. When I was finished, there were those who supposed my service was not.”
One simply did not refuse the throne of King Johan, Desperous knew, its ebony feet were soaked in blood. Ivatelo was a marked man, a deserter, an oath breaker.
“You had a duty,” challenged Bently.
Ivatelo halted with a heavy sigh, and turned, barring the path with his body. “There are men like you, Captain Bently, who are of great nobility. I respect your belief that service to one’s lord is supreme. But respect does not equate acceptance. There comes a point in each man’s life when he owes nothing more to another man. My king had no right to ask me of further sacrifice.”
“When you take an oath it means something,” said Bently. His voice grew hoarse. “You serve until your lord releases you. Until you are spent of being any use. You commit to whatever sacrifice you are asked to make.”
“And you have sacrificed much,” said Desperous. He was beginning to understand Bently. “Where is your family?”
Bently glared at Desperous, clearly unsettled by the topic. But the staid expression on Desperous’s face showed that he had no ill intent. Bently’s demeanor cooled. “They are on an estate, just outside of Manherm. Maya, my wife. We have a daughter, Samantha. I don’t wish to speak of them.”
Bently ducked his head in a futile attempt to hide his inflamed eyes. He plowed past Ivatelo, continuing down the path.
Desperous watched him go, understanding then that this was Bently’s sacrifice. Bently had remained with his army instead of deserting to protect his family. To believe that this war was a noble cause was the only way Bently could justify his actions. Desperous shook his head with pity.
&nb
sp; By midday Ivatelo’s wooded path began to cut across switchbacks as they rose into the foothills of the Fir’re mountains. The trees began to thin, replaced by periodic crags of rocks. The air chilled. Bently still led the way, but as they mounted a ridge, he halted and staggered backward, holding his hand to his mouth. Desperous rushed to his side, notching an arrow to his bow. He blinked in disbelief, unable to comprehend what he saw.
“The Scourge of the Wyrm,” said Ivatelo, announcing their arrival to the destitute land. No life existed for as far as the eye could see. Everything was gray, as if all the color had been sucked from the earth by the gluttonous demigods. The once fertile land was reduced to ash. Barren shoulders of stone marched into the distance, rising one beyond the next, until clouds obscured them from vision. In a few places the limbless husks of charred evergreens remained. But most everywhere they looked the trees were toppled like ten pins. Only the shattered hafts of their stumps stood upright, their long dead roots still stubbornly hugging the earth.
“Wyrm fire did this,” began Ivatelo as he stepped into the blight, leaving the trail behind. Each footfall was met with a crack, as the earth fractured beneath his feet. “This is how the demigods repaid the people of Halgath for their betrayal. The Wyserum believed this message would cow the world. Instead, it roused within the creaton races a courage they never knew they possessed. Not even the Guardians could refuse so unified a call.”
With a degree of apprehension, Desperous followed Ivatelo into the realm of the dwarven king. They wagged and weaved to forge a route amongst the petrified stalks. The earth crushed softly beneath them, leaving Desperous with the impression they were traipsing across a thin layer of ice.
The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2) Page 13