The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2)

by Lee H. Haywood

  One of the men in the king’s entourage was Captain Braddock, the dwarf King Salmaen had volunteered to join the mission to awaken the Guardian. There is no great loss there, thought Thatcher. The knight was besotted, teetering on his toes, and leaning drunkenly on each man he passed. A wine skin hung between his teeth. He took lengthy draughts, sharing a drink with anyone willing to take a swig, the king included.

  Salmaen finally arrived before Thatcher, his maul perched upon his shoulder. “What do you think?” pressed the king.

  Engineers had been reinforcing the twin gates of the city with iron staves all night. They wouldn’t hold for long, not against the power the necromancer was bringing to bear against the city. “I think we could have done better if we had more time,” answered Thatcher, deciding it was best not to tell the king how hopeless the situation felt.

  “Aye,” said King Salmaen with a nod. His jaw continuously worked at a glob of engroot, causing all of his utterances to issue in a slurred drawl. “We won’t hold them the way things are now.”

  Thatcher eyed the dwarf keenly. “You have no confidence in the defenses either?”

  “Not in the slightest,” said King Salmaen. “But it will deal them a nasty blow.”

  “And you’re satisfied with that? Why not call it off and retreat within the city? Drop the Gates of Salvation.”

  “Look around you, mate,” said King Salmaen grimly. “You see dwarves with wide grins on their faces. We’ve waited generations to get another go at the dragoons. These men may die, but they wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “There’s some honor in that.”

  “Aye.”

  Byron arrived wearing a suit of steel plate that was painted blue and gold. On his breast was blazoned the peak of Calaban offset by the eastern sun. About him a score of knights stood at attention, displaying the only modicum of martial decorum Thatcher had yet seen. “The enemy is sending forward a battering ram,” reported the Lan.

  As if on cue, an ear-shattering bang resounded through the bazaar. The earth shuddered. Motes of dust drifted from the ceiling. By the door, a throng of dwarves threw their weight against the iron staves. There was an explosion outside the city, and red flames licked between the threshold and the bottom of the gate. The acrid scent of burning flesh wafted across the hall.

  “We’ll run out of oil before they run out of carrions,” said Captain Braddock.

  “It’s time for you to leave, Salmaen,” said Byron.

  Another blow was dealt to the door; this one was harder, with more confidence. It appeared the fire had done nothing to hinder the dead.

  “But...”

  “Out!” snapped Thatcher. He knew he had no right speaking to the king in such a manner, but this was no place for stubbornness.

  With a grunt of displeasure, King Salmaen handed his maul to Byron. “You’re in charge, Brother.”

  “I’ll take good care of her.” Byron smiled like a child receiving a toy, and smacked the iron head of the maul into the floor of the bazaar. He arched back his head and belted out, “My breath is my king’s!”

  The masses echoed the oath, their unanimous voice shaking the foundation of the city until they drowned out the incessant crack of the battering ram.

  King Salmaen smiled with approval. He retreated from the cavern under the watch of his guard.

  Thatcher set his attention on the door and waited.

  The next blow sent the iron spur of the ram puncturing through the gate in a hail of splinters. It withdrew, momentarily revealing the hellish scene beyond. Belching black smoke roiled and curled, and within writhed a mob of carrions dripping in yellow flame. The bazaar fell silent, their blusterous oaths of fealty dying in their throats. No king could compel men to face such horrors.

  “May the gods protect us,” muttered Thatcher.

  Byron chuckled, and dropped the visor of his helm, revealing the hideous beaked maw of a Wyrm. “They never have before,” said the dwarf sardonically. “I can’t imagine it will be any different today.”

  Thatcher sincerely hoped he was wrong.

  • • •

  Ivatelo awoke Bently and Desperous rather roughly, making sure they got the point. It was time to go. Bently let out a low groan and rolled over on his side, ignoring Ivatelo’s first attempt. Ivatelo dealt him a quick swat to the head. “Get up, you oaf.” Bently hid his head under a pillow.

  “Is it dawn yet?” muttered Desperous. He sat on the edge of his bed and stretched his frame. He felt as if he had just gone to sleep. His entire body ached.

  “It’s about an hour before dawn,” answered Dolum. He was standing beside Ivatelo, smiling from ear to ear. His head and face were freshly shaven, showing no hint of stubble. He was suited in an ornate hauberk, over which he wore a gray hooded traveling cape clasped with a pearl button. A short sword hung at his hip. He held a steel buckler in one hand and a helm sat atop his head. From his shoulder was slung a sack that appeared overly stuffed and completely unfit for travel.

  Without saying a word, Desperous and Bently began to rummage through the dwarf’s belongings, discarding anything they deemed unnecessary for the journey. Bently plucked the buckler from Dolum’s arms. Desperous overturned his bag, revealing an entire eating utensil set. He held up a steel pot in disbelief.

  “What am I supposed to cook with?” spurted Dolum.

  Bently rapped his knuckle against the dwarf’s metal encased head and grumbled something about using his helmet. Before they were finished, a small pile of useless items had been collected on the ground. Dolum gaped in bewilderment.

  “We travel quick and light,” said Desperous. Bently grunted in agreement.

  Dolum began to rummage through the discarded pile, repacking a few choice items. Desperous shook his head. Dolum was green, unprepared for what was to come. He silently wondered if the dwarf’s burden would become his own.

  “The city’s been stricken by a madness,” said Ivatelo. “The people are fleeing in droves. Rumors are spreading about what happened at the Nexus. No one wants to be trapped in here with the carrions. We need to leave before complete chaos erupts.”

  Desperous hoisted his provisions onto his weary back. The sack was much too light, laden with a loaf of bread, a few tubers, and a pound of dried meat. Meager provisions for a journey of unknown length. It was all King Salmaen’s commissary was willing to spare.

  “Did you get any sleep last night?” asked Bently of Ivatelo.

  “I guess I didn’t,” responded the magic. “I spent the entire night in consultation with the king and his commanders.”

  “You haven’t slept in three days.” There was an air of shock to Bently’s voice.

  Ivatelo dismissed the comment, but Bently was right; Desperous had noticed this as well. The magic seemed to have an endless supply of energy. It unnerved him to think how this might be.

  After an exhausting morning of traveling crowded streets, the party emerged from New Halgath through the south gate, having traversed the entire width of Mount Fir’radax. The sudden brightness of the sun was blinding, and it took a moment for Desperous to realize that the massive shape perched upon the rock outcrop opposite the gate was a dragon.

  Halgan guards gathered nearby, unsure what to do about the dragon. It was for good reason. The dragon was an imposing sight. Each scale of her body was as large as a dwarven shield. Each leg was thicker than the trunk of an ancient oak. Her wings were cast outward, warming in the morning sun. They billowed like the sails of a ship. Desperous stared in awe, taken aback by her majesty. But his attention quickly shifted to the object strapped upon her back. The so-called harness they were to ride in was little more than a large wicker basket.

  “Could be worse, eh?” said Ivatelo with a smile.

  “Hardly,” said Bently. He fidgeted, nervously eyeing the enclosure.

  Camara snaked her head to ground level, carefully measuring each member of the party with her serpent eyes. “Where is Thatcher?”

 
“He stayed behind,” answered Desperous. “The north gate is under siege. He would not part from the city when it was in need.”

  Camara’s lip curled, but she pressed the issue no further.

  Everyone introduced themselves. Camara’s hard face showed little of her emotion, but she seemed generally pleased with the members of the coalition.

  Bently finally asked the obvious. “We’re not really getting into that thing, are we?” He gestured to the basket perched upon Camara’s back.

  “It was the best we could manage on short notice,” said Camara. She issued a deep throated croak which might have been a laugh. “It is not every day I’m asked to carry a creaton somewhere other than in my stomach. It will hold you four, but that’s about it.”

  “I’m sure it will be just fine,” said Dolum. He had a large smirk set upon his face. The dwarf was enjoying this far too much for Desperous’s liking.

  Camara helped the party into the basket, boarding Bently last. The man climbed inside reluctantly, cursing loudly and crossing his heart. Once everyone was situated, there was a gut-churning lurch, and Camara took to the skies, racing west as fast as her wings could carry them. The white peaks of the Fir’re Mountains shifted from view, and with it went the blasted land of the Wyrm Scourge.

  Desperous settled his back against the rough wicker wall and sighed uneasily. This had better work.

  • • •

  The battering ram had punctured several sizable holes into the city gates, but had failed to collapse the structure inward. The cavern was deathly quiet save for the constant thwack of the ram. Whatever enthusiasm the men possessed had been cowed by the weight of impending doom.

  Suddenly the battering ram wheeled away, not to return. The enemy was up to something different. A black form blotted out the fiery light. Thatcher could only curse under his breath and watch. Two undead dragons threw their weight against the gates with explosive force, causing the doors to fly from their hinges in a hail of mortar and wood. The dragons stumbled into the cavern letting out deafening roars.

  The ballistae immediately fired upon the undead beasts. The first bolt sank deep into the foremost dragon’s cheek, protruding through the back of its skull in a flash of black blood. The creature shuddered violently and collapsed to the ground, blocking half the entrance to the bazaar with its body. The second dragon took several shots to the torso, but entered the cavern unabated. The dragon hit the foremost Halgan line like a sledgehammer. Spears splintered and broke. Ravaged bodies flew through the air like ragdolls. The men were helpless against so ferocious a foe. Most simply fled.

  Thatcher blenched at the savage scene, his body frozen with uncertainty. Who am I to challenge so vicious a creature? But with that cowardly thought came the image of his mother’s snarling face. Shame overtook him. The blood of the Avofew courses in my veins, he reminded himself. I am the sentinel of the Laverian people. Thatcher swallowed his fear.

  He dashed from his position, catching the undead dragon’s outstretched arm with his long sword. Flesh and bone cleaved in two, and brackish blood rained from the stump. The creature reeled on Thatcher, its possessed brain thinking only of death. The undead dragon did not register that this creaton stood fast while all others quailed before its gaze. A maw of razor teeth lunged at Thatcher, fast as a striking cobra, but Thatcher was faster. His blade met the soft flesh of the eye, and Thatcher threw all his weight forward, puncturing through the socket wall and skull. With a gurgled screech the undead dragon collapsed, its second life ended in a flood of blood.

  Thatcher had no time to celebrate his victory. The carrion horde pressed into the cavern. Captain Braddock, Lan Byron’s second, ordered the archers to fire. The foremost lines of the carrion horde collapsed in on themselves, crushed beneath a pelting rain of arrows and bolts. Yet still more came, an endless flood of knotted limbs and fetid carcasses. Each consecutive wave reached further than the last, until finally the two great armies met, coalescing into a single writhing pile of death. Spears were useless; this was butcher’s work. The dwarves stabbed with short blades and chopped with axes. The carrions were as vile as a pack of wolves. They overwhelmed many, yanking their hapless victims into their ranks to be rent with bare hands and gnashing teeth.

  The clamor of clashing steel and the droning wail of dying men deafened the senses. Hope flagged, and the lines began to waver. The urge to retreat began to filter through the cavern like a contagion. Seeing this, Lan Byron pushed to the front with a host of armored knights, swinging his maul like a madman. He yelled and cursed, his blusterous voice rising above all others. Before long, a great swath of crushed carrions had fallen about him. Urged on by the bravery of their lord, many dwarves began to stand their ground, suddenly finding strength in numbers. Fear turned to anger, and anger turned to strength. They tore into the carrions with sanguinary zeal.

  Slowly, the Halgan army gained the upper hand. The enemy’s presence in the cavern thinned, until finally after more than an hour of bitter fighting, the last of the carrions were slaughtered. Dwarves threw themselves to the ground in utter exhaustion. Still others roared triumphantly. Some simply sobbed where they stood, overwhelmed by the loss of life. Nothing drowned out the cries of their fallen comrades.

  “Is that it?” asked Byron, wiping blood from the head of his maul.

  “I sincerely doubt it,” managed Thatcher between panting breaths. A carrion had taken a bite out of his leg, and he couldn’t take a step without limping. He eyed the tangled mass of bodies that carpeted the ground. Beyond, he could see what appeared to be a wall of shields slowly approaching.

  “More carrions,” proposed Byron.

  Thatcher shook his head. “Regroup!”

  The dragoons came into the chamber in a tight phalanx, file after file of unified bodies. A formidable wall of spears protruded over their shields. The shrieking battle cries of the dragoons curdled Thatcher’s blood. Above it all, he could hear the cadent bark of, “step, step, step, step,” issued by their commander. They hit the unprepared Halgan lines like a blade to ripe grass; the forward-most dwarves fell, their lives taken in an instant. The line bulged in places and completely collapsed in others. The dwarves were not trained to repel such an attack. The beginning of a massacre was unfolding before them.

  So much for the might of the Halgan Empire, thought Thatcher. He met Byron’s eye.

  The Lan shook his head. There was no other option. Baring his teeth, Byron barked out the order with disdain. “Retreat!” A trumpeter at his side blasted a long melancholy note from his instrument. “Fall back!” snapped the Halgan lord as he struck a dragoon across the face. “To the Gates!” he roared as he shattered the arm of a foe who had drawn too near. The specter of failure seemed to enliven Byron, and he roared with each strike, sending swaths of blood and the tattered remains of his opponents sailing through the air.

  Thatcher joined him, and like a pair of bears at bay, they held off the enemy’s advance. Desperate to flee, the conscripts filtered past only to find their escape blocked by a bottleneck forming at the mouth of the cavern.

  “We need time,” yelled Thatcher.

  As if in answer, Captain Braddock arrived with his host of knights. Standing abreast they held the line, retreating with slow deliberate steps. This final rearguard was the only thing that kept the dragoons from cutting off the retreat to the Gates of Salvation.

  “How far into the tunnel is the gate?” screamed Thatcher over the din of war.

  “At the head of the passage,” grunted Byron, parrying off a dragoon’s attack.

  “Suddenly, twenty paces doesn’t seem so close.”

  Byron laughed manically. “Why not order the gate closed? You and I can go at these bastards all day long.”

  “Stupendous idea,” sneered Thatcher. He picked up a discarded spear and hurled it into the stomach of a dragoon. The fight raged on, and after what seemed like an eternity, Thatcher heard the words he had been waiting for.

  “We’re here!”r />
  Thatcher realized Byron was right. They were standing in the mouth of the tunnel. Thatcher, Byron, Captain Braddock, and a handful of knights were all that stood between the dragoon army and the city.

  “Stand ready. Here it comes!”

  Thatcher kicked a stumbling dragoon away from the tunnel. “When?”

  “Now!”

  The door fell without warning. A band of solid metal plummeted from the ceiling only inches from Thatcher’s face, blackening his vision with its dull iron facade. The piercing bang of metal striking stone cut into his ears like a blade. The din echoed through the entirety of New Halgath again and again, until it finally dulled to a low reverberating ring that seemed to live for an eternity in the core of Thatcher’s brain.

  He exhaled, realizing he had not been breathing. The gate was down, the enemy was cut off from the city. The people were safe, King Salmaen was safe. Thatcher let out a sigh of relief. It could have been worse.

  CHAPTER

  XVIII

  DARK MAGIC

  Camara began to bank sharply, sending what Desperous could see of the forest into a spinning spiral. They had traveled nonstop for much of the day, and the sun was now well below its zenith. Camara came to a soft landing and removed the pack, setting it gently upon the ground.

  “What’s going on?” inquired Desperous. He leapt from the basket, landing with a soft crunch. He suddenly realized they were on the Laverian coast. The Sea of Eosre expanded to the horizon in the west. Pristine blue water lapped against the black sand beach, filling the air with the churn of crashing waves.

  Camara was waiting outside in the guise of an elf. The base of her white dress and the hem of her sleeves plumed like the pinions of a bird, the fabric cast from a delicate thread no mortal had ever spun. The cloth shimmered, granting her the radiance of a deity. Desperous felt his stomach flutter.

  “A storm is settling in,” said Camara. She nodded south. A wrack of clouds boiled over the sea, graying by the minute. The low drum of thunder drifted across the expanse. “Spire Island is not an easy destination to find, especially in foul weather. I need the stars to guide us. The open sea is very unforgiving.”