The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2)

by Lee H. Haywood

  Soon they came to a wide swath of land where the trees were replaced by piles of gray stone. Boulders the size of men dotted the landscape. Were it not for the ruinous crown of stone that encircled the top of an adjacent hill, Desperous would not have guessed they were walking amongst a razed city.

  “Stoctam,” said Ivatelo, giving the ruin a name. “It was the first to fall to the Scourge.” Desperous imagined he saw a hint of regret in the man’s face.

  Bently passed through the ruins with an aloofness that bespoke the torment in his mind. He seemed to hardly notice the outlines of blasted temples and toppled homes, preferring to keep his head down. He trudged forward doggedly.

  Desperous ran his hand over the surface of a carved boulder. With his fingertips he could feel each chisel stroke of the master artisan. Each cleavage was so carefully wrought, one deft point in a collage that once fit together like a puzzle. In his mind’s eye he imagined how it must have looked. So much beauty undone by hatred. If this was what the Wyrm could do at the low point of their power, he shuddered to imagine what the Guardian might be capable of doing with the Orb.

  They climbed higher with each passing league, venturing deeper into the shadow of the mountain. Desperous eyed the rising crag with disquiet. He had always regarded the forest as safe. There, he could hide and use stealth to his advantage. In the open there was no such salvation; brute force reigned supreme. He looked back over the tumbling waste they had crossed. A zigzag path of fragmented earth left a clear trail in their wake. He could only wonder if there were others still hunting them.

  The chatter of falling rocks and hissing wind echoed through the hidden valleys that surrounded them. Periodically, in amongst the din, Desperous sensed a baying cry. He could not pinpoint the location, but it seemed to come from above, near the crest of a ridge. He detected the sudden onset of galloping hooves.

  Everyone stiffened. Their hands shifted to blades.

  “A kaziak?” asked Bently.

  “It has to be, right?” said Desperous. He wasn’t confident in that conclusion. There was an underlying sound that was making him think otherwise. He unsheathed his bow and set an arrow to the string.

  A kaziak suddenly crested the adjacent ridge, galloping forward at a reckless pace. With long strides, it bounded over anything that hindered its progress. Bently let out a sigh of relief, but Desperous was still wary.

  Kaziaks had long served as a symbol of the Halgan Empire’s might. They were a race of petty dragons, considerably smaller in stature than their distant relatives, the Batofew and Avofew. They were flightless, born with useless wings that were shorn off at birth. They possessed a broad, muscular frame and stood twenty hands or more at the shoulders. Although the ungainly animal was used primarily to till fields and draw carts, they were vicious weapons when reined by the hand of a skilled knight. The way this dwarf was riding indicated he was no farmer.

  As he drew near, Desperous could plainly see that the rider was adorned in an outlandish suit of armor. Constructed of overlapping sheaths of leather, it encased his body much like a beetle’s carapace. He hurtled past the trio without giving them so much as a glance. The dwarf’s gaze was set firmly upon the hill he had just surmounted.

  Desperous was still hearing something else. It wasn’t just the kaziak out there. There was a heavy swoosh. Suddenly, the rank smell of rotting flesh struck his nose. There was little time to spare. “Get down!”

  Desperous yanked Bently and Ivatelo to the ground, concealing their forms within a copse of toppled trees. A moment later the massive maw of an undead dragon jerked by overhead. It issued a blood-curdling screech that ran ragged through their veins. A dragoon rider sat atop the wicked mount, and with a flick of his barbed lash, he sent the black creature bearing down upon the kaziak. The distance was closed in an instant. The undead dragon hit the kaziak with its talons, gripping the kaziak’s head like an eagle preying upon a rabbit. Flesh was rent to the bone, and the kaziak jerked to a halt, flinging its rider from the saddle. The dwarf came to a rest a dozen paces away. He tried to get to his feet, but fell after managing only a few staggered steps.

  “I have to help.” Ivatelo began to climb from their hiding spot.

  Desperous dove forward, gripping his cloak firmly. “No, you don’t.”

  Ivatelo glared at Desperous furiously. “I can help him!”

  Bently’s eyes were wide, set firmly upon the struggling dwarf. “Let him try.”

  “No,” managed Desperous. “You don’t understand. There are more.”

  Ivatelo looked to Desperous, then back to the ridge, and finally to the stricken dwarf. “Forgive me.” He fell down in amongst the debris.

  A moment later, half a dozen undead dragons thundered over the hill, the tips of their rotting wings licking the ground with each stroke. The stench of death filled the air from their foul tempest, causing the trio to gag on the noxious odor. The lead dragon snapped up the injured dwarf in its jaws; a pair of kicking legs, a flash of blood, then a death shudder. At least it was quick, thought Desperous contritely.

  Suddenly, there was a stampeding of feet. Carrions flooded over the hilltop, lapping over the earth as a river leaps its banks. They charged senselessly onward at a speed no living man could sustain.

  Bently, in a near panic, struggled to unsheathe his sword, but Ivatelo stayed his hand.

  “Mindless drones. They won’t bother us. They’re following the dragoons.”

  The carrions sprinted by with unseeing eyes. Still, it was a chilling scene; the haggard and diseased bodies passed by like a sea of death.

  When all had finally cleared, Ivatelo’s eyes were sunken, shadowed in grief, but there was something else there as well. Guilt, perhaps. “We should see this as a reason to continue with all haste. If we press on through the night we can reach New Halgath early tomorrow morning.”

  Desperous nodded begrudgingly, accepting another sleepless night. Bently trudged forward with silent resignation.

  Desperous grimaced as night fell over the blighted land. An undead army that needed neither rest nor provisions. Mortals could not keep up with that for long. He was beginning to have the sickening impression that this Guardian might be Laveria’s only hope.

  CHAPTER

  XVI

  NEW HALGATH

  Bently spotted the outline of New Halgath in the night sky long before they arrived to the city. Two stone cauldrons floated high upon the horizon, held aloft by an invisible foundation. The pair belched flames into the night. A column of cinders ascended above each blaze, twin beacons to the surrounding land.

  “By the gods,” said Bently, aghast from the sight. “The ramparts of New Halgath must be two hundred feet high. What army could ever take such a place?”

  “Don’t be deceived by the torchlight,” said Ivatelo, as he led his weary companions onward. “They rest high upon the sheer sides of Fir’radax, the northern wall of the city. Its face is impenetrable indeed. But every city has a gate, and all gates are made to open.”

  A few hours before dawn, still half a league from the city, they spotted the hulking outline of kaziaks in the gloom. They were nearly upon the riders before the sentries paid them heed. A hue and cry went up from the first, and the second wheeled about, turning his lance on the party.

  “Name yourselves!” called out the rider in a gruff voice.

  Ivatelo raised his hands, showing no ill intent. “Ivatelo of Taper. I am accompanied by the Luthuanian prince and a Capernican ambassador,” he replied hastily.

  In the cover of dark, it was impossible for the dwarves to gauge whether Ivatelo spoke the truth. One rider held them at lance point. The second galloped in a wide circle, searching for any others that might lie in hiding. Satisfied, the rider returned, doffing his helmet. Bently was shocked by the knight’s appearance. The dwarf was hardly older than a child. His head was freshly shaven, and his beard little more than stubble. He eyed the trio with apprehension. “What purpose do you have in the king’s realm?�
�� demanded the dwarf.

  “We come as emissaries to your king,” declared Bently in his best statesman voice. “We seek an alliance against the carrion horde.”

  The two riders whispered momentarily, then nodded in agreement. “We’ll guide you to the city.”

  “That would hardly be necessary...,” began Ivatelo.

  “It’s entirely necessary,” said the dwarf, cutting him short. “There’s a battle waging at the old wall.”

  “The carrion have already arrived?” Bently was shocked.

  “Yesterday afternoon,” said the larger of the two. “And more have been coming in ever since.”

  The kaziak escorts led them to a massive ridge that sprung up from the earth. It ran in a wide arc before vanishing into the dark in either direction. It was the remains of the old city wall, Bently realized. The outer stonework had been stripped away long ago, leaving behind a soaring mound of weathered filler. Bently could glean from the remnants that the wall once stood ten fathoms or more.

  The kaziaks ran up the steep incline without a problem, but it was nearly impassible by foot. The gravel was loose and the grade was far too steep. One of the dwarves tossed a rope over the edge of the cliff. With some effort, the three scrambled to the top.

  They passed through the remains of Old Halgath. All about them the ghostly husks of razed buildings shifted by. Bently paid them little heed. His attention was set to the eastern ridge of the old wall. On the far side of the valley, silhouettes moved against a backdrop of raging fire. Like actors in a shadow theater, hundreds shifted to and fro, rising and falling as the carrions pressed up the far side of the wall.

  At one place, a black bulge grew atop the ridge. It took on the shape of a dragon, its wings boiling with flame. Standing before it, stalwart and unmoving, was a woman in white. She raised her hand in objection to the dragon. The dragon crushed her into nothingness.

  “The Guardians protect me,” whispered Bently. He crossed himself. As if in reply, a bellowing cry echoed across the valley, sending a cold shiver down Bently’s spine.

  They arrived to the foot of Fir’radax. A blank slab of shadow stood before them. For a hundred feet the sheer granite wall rose, featureless and smooth, until suddenly the twin beacons sprung from its face, burning brighter than the sun. Still higher, shimmering like a sea of stars, were hundreds of square frame windows. The windows pockmarked the cliff face, glowing faintly with candlelight. The old city was no more, Bently had to remind himself. The people of Halgath now lived within the mountain’s core, shielding themselves with a wall of stone.

  Hundreds were gathered about the base of the cliff. Many were weary soldiers returning from battle. But most were peasants from the surrounding land. Halgan soldiers ushered the refugees through a pair of colossal gates, forcing anyone who entered to abandon their possessions outside. Soldiers ransacked the abandoned carts and baggage, pulling out food and needed supplies. All else was cast into a great bonfire that illuminated the crowd in red light.

  In amongst the crowd a horse screamed in terror as its carriage was engulfed in flames. Frantic soldiers rushed forward to extinguish the blaze, but the horse was already bounding out of control, galloping through the crowd and sending people tumbling. The panicking press of bodies intensified, and Bently was suddenly back at Manherm, watching the cascade of bodies fall into the Jasmine as the carrions ripped the crowd to pieces.

  “Bently!”

  Bently could hear his heart beating. All of his muscles became rigid. He reached for his sword. An unyielding grasp caught his wrist before he could draw the blade from its scabbard.

  “Bently!” Desperous yelled again.

  Bently shook the nightmare from his head. Someone had cut the horse free from the carriage. The startled cries had died down. “Not enough sleep, that’s all,” stammered Bently, overcome with sudden embarrassment.

  “I know,” said Desperous. “I feel the same way.” He laid his hand upon Bently’s shoulder and led him through the crowd.

  No he doesn’t, thought Bently. Desperous doesn’t feel the same way at all. Not one bit. But it was a kind lie, a face-saving lie. He accepted Desperous’s help with silent gratitude.

  Desperous cut a path through the masses to reach the entrance to the city. The iron studded gates stood ajar, their opening glowing like the entrance to a dragon’s lair. Seeing inside Halgath for the first time, Bently realized it was not the dark and dungeon-like abode he had imagined. A thousand burning chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, and everywhere he looked, he spied short stone posts cobwebbed with radiant green veins. For a split second Bently forgot all of his cares, overwhelmed by the beauty. He let out a gasp of childish wonderment, and entered into the subterranean world of New Halgath.

  The trio immediately found themselves lost in a sea of dwarves. They were standing within a stone cavern. In places, clusters of stalactites drooped from the raw rock ceiling, resembling fingers of glistening lace. But most of the cavern resembled the inside of a quarry. Flat stone walls ran the perimeter, fashioned with graven lines to resemble sunbursts and trees, flowers and forests. Columns the girth of redwoods sprung from floor to ceiling, supporting the lofty expanse.

  The space clearly served as a bazaar. Yet today everything had been shoved aside, and dwarves piled atop merchant carts, caring nothing of the wares they were crushing beneath their feet. All were vying for space, intent upon seeing what was transpiring at the center of the room.

  Two dwarves stood within a circle of bodies at the center of the chamber. Each wore a red silk surcoat. This seemed to denote rank amongst the people of Halgath. Both were bearded with long reddish-brown whiskers. One was brawny, with a sharp brow and narrow eyes. The other was taller and far older. He had a stout build and held a sizable maul, grasping it with the same ease with which one might hold a carpenter’s hammer. He paced back and forth, clearly in the middle of a long-winded diatribe. Standing at the edge of this circle was a familiar figure dressed in a rustic cloak.

  “Thatcher’s here,” announced Desperous.

  Bently nodded knowingly.

  They began to push their way toward the dragon, much to the chagrin of many a dwarf. As they went, Bently kept one eye on the two dwarves at the center of the room.

  “So, you suppose me a coward, Mattieus?” called out the taller dwarf.

  “I have said nothing of the sort, My King,” answered Mattieus coolly. A younger dwarf, clearly of noble bearings, he stood with his arms crossed behind his back. “But we have an opportunity to secure the city without further loss of life. The men have given enough already. The Gates of Salvation were built for times like this. Our ancestors weren’t cowards when they built them, they were preparing for the worst. I tell you, the worst is here, and there is no cowardice in accepting that fact.”

  “We’re a fighting breed, damn it,” howled King Salmaen. “It’s not in my nature to deny an enemy the wrath of the Halgan Empire, and it will not happen today.” His glowering eyes shifted over the crowd. “Who stands with this coward?”

  A murmur rose amongst the onlookers, and the people noticeably shrunk beneath their king’s stare. Salmaen scowled. “You would have us hole up in a mountain like vermin.” He spit at Mattieus’s feet. “No! We drive this stain from our lands tonight!” King Salmaen thrust his war hammer aloft, and was met by a roar of approval. The resonating voice of the crowd knew no end in the lofty cavern.

  Many dwarves began to push their way to the head of the crowd. They gathered behind Mattieus to bolster their man. “You’re wrong, King Salmaen,” said Mattieus, growing bold with numbers. He jutted out his beard in an insolent fashion. “Age has blinded you from wisdom.”

  “It shames me to think the blood of Hearst runs through your veins,” said the king, curling his lip in disgust. “I guess the Weaver has fated this to happen. I call a bostit upon you.”

  The crowd fell hush.

  “What just happened?” whispered Bently.

  “It�
�s a bostit,” explained Ivatelo. “A challenge to the throne. A long-standing tradition. Halgath society is very open to debate. But when the king’s will is opposed he may issue a bostit upon his challenger.”

  Mattieus paced back and forth, eyeing his king. Finally he gave a wide toothy grin. “Accepted.”

  The crowd exploded in frenzied zeal.

  The two combatants began to discard their armor, stripping down to their loincloths. They received encouraging words from their supporters, and worked themselves up for the forthcoming brawl, slapping their chests, and growling like animals.

  Suddenly, the crowd collectively yelled, “Bostit!”

  The two dwarves rushed each other with fists swinging. Mattieus managed the first blow, striking King Salmaen with a glancing punch to his chin. The king grinned at the pain and lashed back, socking his opponent hard in the side. He followed that with a sharp knee to Mattieus’s stomach. Mattieus let out a gurgling cough and stumbled to his hands and knees. Not letting up for a second, Salmaen kicked Mattieus in the face, turning him flat on his back. Mattieus’s eyes glassed over. All fight vanished from his face.

  In a blur Salmaen was on top of his bewildered foe, howling like a banshee. Mattieus weakly pressed his arms into Salmaen’s chest, his limbs moving with the precision of a drunkard. Salmaen swatted aside the man’s arm and smashed his brow into Mattieus’s nose. Over and over again, his forehead met Mattieus’s face, until Mattieus’s squirming hands and kicking feet finally grew limp.

  The chamber was deathly quiet, the audience dumbfounded by their king’s sudden ferocity.

  King Salmaen rose, his face painted in the splattering of his challenger’s blood. He placed a foot firmly upon Mattieus’s throat and then motioned to his retinue. His squire ran forward, presenting a knife into the king’s hand. Salmaen checked the edge with his thumb. Satisfied, he stooped over Mattieus and began to shear off his beard by the handful. Salmaen gave little mind to the difference between flesh and hair, and when he was finished, Mattieus’s face was a mangled patchwork of skinned flesh and uneven beard tufts.