“A reasonable decision,” said Bently, seeming to hardly take note of Camara’s transformation. He wearily threw his body upon a sandy bank, and immediately began to set his various weapons before him on a patch of dry sand. He pulled out a rag and stone, and began to sharpen his knife.
“Expecting a fight?” asked Desperous.
“I don’t know what I’m expecting,” said Bently as he pressed his finger against the freshly honed edge of the knife. It was the one he had held to Desperous’s throat. Satisfied, he laid it aside.
“With a dragoness on our side who would dare challenge us?” said Dolum. He selected a seat away from the others.
Camara laughed lightly. “Many would dare if they knew the intent of our mission.”
“Trackers sent by the necromancer have already confronted us once,” said Desperous. He looked to Bently to see if the man wished to add anything, but Bently never averted his eyes from the steel he was polishing with an oiled rag. The men who attacked them still haunted Bently, that Desperous could plainly see. In time he hoped Bently would be honest with him about the encounter.
“Were...were people killed?” stammered Dolum. His skin turned sallow at the mere suggestion of fighting.
“Three men died,” said Bently, almost defensively. “They would have killed us if they had the chance.”
“Oh...,” said Dolum. He dropped his head between his knees. When he spoke again his voice was weak and unsure. “The truth ought to be known if I am to accompany your party. I’ve never raised a sword in combat before.”
“There is nothing unusual about that,” said Ivatelo, taking a seat beside the dwarf.
“There is if you’ve been in a fight.” Dolum grinned, but it was a pained gesture. “Have you heard of the Calmeric Pilgrimage? It’s a rite of passage. You set out from the ruins of Temora as a boy, and by the time you set foot in Calmeric you have entered manhood. It’s supposed to be a safe journey along well-traveled roads.” He paused for a moment, mastering the waver in his voice. “It was during the summer of the great plague, the southern lands were in chaos. Strangers weren’t trusted. People were being outcast from villages for witchcraft. Traveling abroad was foolish; but I was the son of the king, and such things should not give me pause.
“I set out with three other boys, one of whom was my elder brother Halwin. Two days into the journey we ran into some plaguers. They were clearly outcasts, barely hanging on to life. They demanded we hand over our provisions. But Halwin would not suffer it. A scuffle ensued, and we broke away, losing them in the forest. Only then did we realize one of the boys hadn’t made it. My brother stood firm that we go back and find him. I insisted we seek help from a village we had passed earlier in the day. Halwin told me to go by myself since I was the fastest. When I arrived back with help, we found my companions hanging from a tree.” Dolum averted his eyes for a moment, ashamed by how the memory still pained him. “The plaguers were long gone, they had disappeared back into the forest. There was no justice, only shame and cowardice. My family comes from a long line of warriors, and my father and uncle are no exceptions. They thought I took the coward’s route. I should have stayed with my comrades. They never saw the situation as I did.”
“So what? Are you here to prove yourself?” asked Bently.
Dolum’s cheeks reddened. “No, nothing of that sort,” he replied quietly. “Right now my kingdom needs men of martial worth. I falsely believed your journey did not. I volunteered to accompany this mission so that a man of valor could remain behind and fight.”
“What if the war finds us?” asked Desperous.
“Then I will do what is needed,” replied Dolum. “I have trained. I will be ready.”
“Training may build confidence, but that doesn’t equate to skill,” said Bently. He set his blade aside with a sigh. “You may not see the importance of this mission, but all that I hold dear hangs in the balance. If we get into a fight I want you to stay to our backs. This is no proving ground.”
Dolum looked at his feet, clearly dejected by the man’s stern words.
Ivatelo patted the young dwarf on the shoulder. “A little food perhaps?” suggested the magic, purposefully changing the subject.
“Yes, I can do that,” said Dolum, eager to be of some help. He began to rummage through his bag. “I have some carrots and turnips. We could brew a soup.” He held up a handful of vegetables, as if to show he wasn’t completely useless.
“Sounds delicious,” grumbled Bently, making it obvious that he was not at all interested in the ingredients Dolum had listed.
Ivatelo shot Bently a disgruntled look. “I will go find some fresh water.” He plucked the helmet from Dolum’s head and made his way into the forest.
Dolum thought better of complaining, and began to busy himself preparing the meal. “So, what do you know about this Guardian?” asked Dolum, as he chopped the vegetables.
“Yansarian is as akin to a god as there is left in this world,” answered Bently. He crossed himself in praise. “He’s all-powerful, or very near to it.”
“And he is a sour old grump,” said Camara. She took a seat beside Bently on the embankment.
Bently’s eyes opened wide. “You’ve met Yansarian?”
“I knew him quite well prior to the War of Sundering,” said Camara. “He had a vision for this land in which the dragon clans filled a role. The war ended such dreams, but not his idealistic ways. He will help us if he can, I just fear he may go beyond that point.”
“Meaning?” pressed Desperous. Nochman despised the Guardians almost as much as the Wyrm, and Desperous’s knowledge of the demigods was tainted by his father’s prejudices. Desperous was curious to hear the opinion of someone who actually knew Yansarian.
“Yansarian will poke his nose into things he should not,” said Camara. “He’s nearly omnipotent, but don’t mistake that for all-knowing. A being with that much power can be dangerous, even if they think they have the best intentions.”
“Like the Wyrm,” said Desperous.
“Precisely,” said Camara. “Despite the horror stories you have heard, most of which are probably true, the Wyrm held no malice toward the creaton races. One thinks differently when they have an indefinite lifespan.” Her stolid creaton face turned into a practiced smile. Her off-putting appearance made Desperous feel uneasy. Her slender face was as beautiful as the fairest matriarch. Yet within lay a dragon’s mind and a dragon’s soul. Her beauty was a fraudulent veneer. Even so, he felt himself sheepishly looking at his feet whenever their eyes met.
“You’re giving them a bit too much credit,” said Dolum brusquely. “The Wyrm destroyed my homeland. I have no taste for giving them sympathy.”
“I’ll give credit where it is due,” said Camara with a shrug. “And you are right, the Wyrm are not deserving of any. I am simply saying, given the right circumstances, much can be justified in the mind of a demigod. Because of this, you need to be prepared. One cannot blindly trust the Guardian.”
Her lesson was cut short by a piercing scream from the forest. Everyone froze. Another scream followed and then a muffled explosion.
“What was that?” asked Dolum, rising quickly to his feet. Much to his dismay, he found himself alone. The other three were already sprinting toward the forest with weapons drawn.
Desperous led the way at a maddened pace, his Razorwind unsheathed, an arrow nocked. Cresting the ridge of a dell he could hear a low muffled groan in the valley below. He scrambled down the leaf strewn hill, leapt over a downed tree, and landed at the edge of a stream. The water ran red. His eyes darted to its source. Ivatelo sat doubled over on the far side of the stream, his tunic stained in blood.
Camara cleared the water in a single graceful bound, coming down alongside Ivatelo. “Get over here with some cloth!” She reached for the old man’s quaking figure, but to everyone’s shock Ivatelo jerked away.
“I’ll need no such thing,” said Ivatelo. He jumped to his feet, waving his hand in a harried fa
shion. “They didn’t lay a scratch on me.” His lip quivered with rage.
“They?” inquired Desperous.
“Damned bandits,” said Ivatelo. He pointed to a pile of red-stained brush to his right.
Desperous and Bently examined the scene. A dead human was slumped backward over the brush, a knife lodged in his chest. Desperous kicked through the man’s meager belongings. An old yew bow, an empty quiver, and a pile of moldy bread was all that he possessed.
Camara continued to hover over Ivatelo like a concerned mother. “But you’re covered in blood. Are you sure you’re unscathed?”
“Not a drop of it is mine,” replied Ivatelo. He sighed. His demeanor began to cool. “I killed him with his own blade. His companion came up on me from behind. I hit him with a spell, it was instinctual, I had no intention to inflict such harm.” He pointed to a smoldering form that lay further down the bank.
Dolum was closest to where Ivatelo pointed, and he issued a gasp of horror when he discovered he was standing nearly on top of the charred body. The dwarf began to pace about, huffing as if he might hyperventilate.
“Then you’re fine?” asked Desperous, ignoring the overly dramatic dwarf.
“A bit agitated and startled, but nothing more.”
“Thank the gods,” said Camara with a sigh.
“Well, I can’t say I want water out of this stream any longer,” said Bently, making a disgusted face.
“I’ve lost my appetite anyway,” said Desperous. He eyed the disfigured body, in awe that the old magic possessed such power.
They sat at the edge of the stream for some time, trying to catch their breaths. Camara departed almost immediately, taking to the air in search for any hidden foe. When she returned, she reported that she found a small lean-to that probably belonged to the culprits. She discovered uniforms of the Emotrian Legion within. They were likely deserters. She saw no other signs of life. They were alone.
“It’s a pity that this transpired as it did,” said Bently. “Had we not landed here those men would still be alive.”
“To do what?” challenged Ivatelo. “To ambush the next travelers that came this way?”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” said Bently. “It’s just unfortunate. That’s all. A needless death in a time of war.” Desperous imagined Bently understood all too well why these men chose to desert.
“Perhaps,” said Ivatelo coolly. It was evident that he did not appreciate Bently’s interpretation of events. “Now, if you four would be so kind, I would appreciate some privacy to rinse this wretch’s blood from my body.”
“Of course,” said Desperous, finally sheathing his weapon. “Let’s give him some room.” He began toward the camp and the others followed in tow.
Halfway back to the beach Dolum piped up. “If you guys don’t mind, I’m going to hold back and relieve myself.”
“Just be careful,” chided Camara.
Dolum nodded and sprinted off from the path.
Bently muttered something disparaging under his breath.
Desperous just shook his head.
• • •
In all truth, Dolum didn’t have to urinate. Quite the contrary, he was feeling parched; his brow was sweaty and his stomach queasy. The sight of the charred corpse brought back images of his brother. He felt like he was going to be ill.
He gagged until the muscles in his stomach were cramping, but he held off the sickness. Dolum cursed himself. He desired nothing more than to make his father proud. He needed to earn the title of Moch, not just inherit it as a birthright. And here I am nearly getting sick over the sight of a dead body. “Get it together, mate.”
He worked his way back to the edge of the forest but halted. There was a low pained sound coming from the area where he had last seen Ivatelo. He cautiously reached for his short sword, and took a step toward the noise. He halted midstride. Maybe it’s nothing, he thought. Or maybe it was something bad. And if it was, did Dolum want anything to do with it?
Abashed and enraged, Dolum shook his head vigorously, as if he might shake out the web of cowardly thoughts that were knotted in his brain. He had joined a brotherhood when he signed onto this mission. They were counting on him. “Be a man,” he chided himself.
He slid into the forest and began to work switchbacks down the steep incline leading to the stream. He could hear the gentle rush of water just ahead, and halted behind a moss-covered stump. A thick collection of brackens surrounded its base, hiding his body from view. Just in case there is trouble, he thought. Peeking through the fronds, he caught sight of Ivatelo. The magic was fine. Dolum had simply been hearing things.
He started to leave, feeling foolish, when something caught his attention.
Dolum imagined for a moment he was being deceived by his eyes; his vision was not stellar. He squinted, drawing Ivatelo’s frame into focus. Dolum’s breath caught in his throat. There was no mistaking what he saw, and as panic began to seize him, Dolum realized he had no idea what to do.
Ivatelo was naked down to his waist. He was standing in the stream, crouched over, briskly running his tunic over a rock. Red clouds drifted downstream from his bloody shirt. At first, the scene appeared as it should, but then Dolum noticed the magic’s body.
To Dolum’s horror two wooden shafts were protruding from Ivatelo’s back. Each was raised an inch off the skin. Small tendrils of blood ran from each point, tracing about the curve of his bent back and dripping from his chest.
Satisfied with his work on the tunic, Ivatelo laid it over a branch, and then settled himself upon a rock. He arched over awkwardly, and gripped the higher of the two shafts. He gave it a soft tug. Nothing. He yanked it hard. There was a sickening crack and the shaft came free, slick with blood. He gingerly pressed a finger to the gaping hole, cauterizing the wound in a flash of white light.
Ivatelo held up the object to the sun and cursed quietly. He was holding an arrow shaft that was nearly a hand’s width in length. There was no way the arrow could have missed his lung. Dolum gasped in dismay, his outburst issuing like a thunderclap in the silent forest. He threw his hands over his mouth, but it was already too late.
Ivatelo’s eyes darted over the grove where Dolum hid.
Dolum held his breath, he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Ivatelo’s gaze was fixated directly upon him, but only for a moment, and then he moved on, setting his attention to the next arrow. The magic didn’t even cringe as he removed the second shaft.
Ivatelo began to rinse his arms and chest with the chill water of the stream, laving away the taint of blood from his body. While the magic was distracted, Dolum backtracked through the foliage, moving as quickly as he could without making a noise. He tried to control his panicked breath, but was far too scared. He wasn’t supposed to have seen whatever it was he just witnessed. He knew only one thing; that was black magic, a perverse art. Ivatelo was not who he claimed to be. As soon as Dolum reached the beach he slowed his pace and tried to regain his composure. Should I tell the others? Do they already know?
Dolum had no idea how close the three were to each other. On one hand, he felt like he had just discovered some dark truth. On the other, what if everyone else was in on it? Dolum was the outsider, after all.
Bently looked up from a small fire he was building. “It took you long enough.”
“Sorry,” said Dolum, his brow felt feverish. “I got a bit turned around out there.” He decided to take a chance. “How well do you guys know Sir Ivatelo?”
“Well enough. Why do you ask?” said Bently.
“Do you think he’s going to be alright from his encounter?” inquired Dolum, doing his best not to reveal his doubts concerning the magic.
“He seems fine,” said Bently. “But why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Too late did Dolum hear the soft crunch of sand to his rear. He spun around to discover Ivatelo standing behind him.
“I feel much better now, Dolum, thank you for your concern,” said Ivatelo.
“Deserters and bandits,” said Desperous with a furled lip. He spit in disgust. “I’m glad you’re alright.”
“As am I,” said Ivatelo. His ponderous gaze shifted to Dolum. The young dwarf couldn’t help but shudder.
CHAPTER
XIX
THE NECROMANCER
“The essential rule that you must understand, before I can teach you another thing, is that all you ever learned at Taper was a lie,” began Jeremiah. The old magic was pacing before the bland gray wall of their cell, his hands held behind his back. “That knowledge served as a distraction to deny you your full potential.”
“Truly, you are exaggerating,” said Demetry. He lounged back on the bumpy hay-filled mattress the prison warden called a bed.
Jeremiah gave him a look that implied he most definitely was not. “Do this, create an apple for me.”
Demetry sat up cross-legged, and began to murmur the words to the spell. The words painted an image in his mind; red flesh, spongy interior, seeds black as jet. He could feel the fruit taking form in his hand. Suddenly, something thwacked him in the head. Demetry looked up to discover Jeremiah poised to throw another apple.
“What was that?”
“An apple.”
“I don’t understand,” said Demetry. He held his hands up defensively in case his mentor decided to throw the second apple.
“Life is an endless game of twisting words to match your thoughts,” explained Jeremiah. “Yet which is the weaker lot? Words bind us from our purpose.”
“Don’t you need words to create something out of nothing?” said Demetry, echoing the message he had heard again and again from his instructors at Taper.
The furrowed look on Jeremiah’s face told him he was wrong. “Do you know the words of a spell that would turn stone into life?” Inexplicably, moss sprung from the walls, grass grew from the floor, and all about them was green.
The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2) Page 17