To the burly Jou Amn, it was just another day in a kingdom that looked the same, no matter where he went. Since splitting with Kryte and the others, they had seen no contact. Indeed, there was little of anything alive out in the cold winter plains. The Black and his foul army seemed unconcerned with the main body, as if they knew Aron Kryte had the Staff.
They’d been riding for almost two days and still hadn’t seen a sign of pursuit. Jou Amn was uneasy. Years of service told him extended periods of inactivity often led to violent surprise. Complacency threated to set in the longer they rode. Men such as those around him needed battle to remain sharp, occupied. Though they’d fled for their lives, no enemy pursued. He didn’t particularly mind that part, but the hairs on the back of his neck continued to stand. An eerie feeling haunted him.
By the dawn of the third day, they began to smell the ice-covered tendrils of the first of the Twins. Both massive enough to be rivers of their own, the twins ran several hundred leagues south before combining to form the strength that was the Simca River. The main stem of the river eventually poured out into the oceans at the Port of Grespon.
Life suddenly reappeared, uncontaminated by the foul presence troubling the lands west. Winter birds, raptors and carrion eaters perched scattered throughout the sparse groves of birch and elm dotting the valley. A sharp crest rose another two leagues distant, marking the heart of Lord Felbar’s territory. Still, Jou Amn couldn’t find it in himself to relax.
A shrill whistle filled the afternoon sky, followed by another in the distance. Great raptors with green and black feathers erupted from their perches, disturbed by something Jou Amn couldn’t see. Those hairs threatened to leap off his neck. His hand dropped to his sword. The comfort of being within reach of his weapon allowed him to think clearly.
Jou Amn halted and turned to issue orders, as a single arrow struck the ground at his feet. Fate tempted, the grizzled veteran drew his sword and brought up his small shield. The instant his blade touched the chill air, a hundred elven bowmen slipped from the shadows and aimed. An even smaller armored force emerged from seemingly nowhere, lances with honed, barbed tips leveled and ready to charge.
One rider made his way down to the front of the Golden Warrior column, stopping well short, yet within speaking distance. The wind blew his long, raven black hair away from his shoulders, adding to his already ominous authority. Cold eyes stared at each of those he could make out. He finished his impassive scan and returned his gaze on Jou Amn. The wind stopped as he opened his mouth.
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”
The looming hulks of massive barrows marked the edge of Dreamhaven territory. Yet, there was no sense of relief among the weary band. It wouldn’t take the darklings long to figure out where Andolus was leading them and when that happened… The lure of the Staff was powerful, almost aphrodisiac-like. The enemy would sweep down upon the tiny group like the hounds of death itself. Time, despite being so close to their destination, was a growing enemy. Aron almost despised his job.
The keen eyes of the elf prince guided them through the great barrows of past elf kings. Once marvelous statues of marble and bronze decorated the surrounding grounds, now worn and broken by years of harsh neglect. Stains streaked the face of a proud elf king, standing with his sword raised high in a killing blow, giving the image of tears streaming from his sad eyes. The crystal and marble head of his war stallion lay broken in a patch of ivy, lifeless eyes and mouth gaping.
The barrows themselves sustained little damage through the years, though all had turned pale shades of grey and brown. The splendor that once gave life to Dreamhaven had fled. Decay wormed from grave to grave. Droves of gardens once teeming with rainbows of flowers were now overrun with weeds. Dreamhaven, the past glory of an ancient elven empire, was ignored to the point of doom.
Each new step of horse brought another vivid terror to the young Galdean princess, despite the sense of calm struggling to sooth her nerves. Elsyn couldn’t tear her eyes from the ghostly figures standing in snow and weed. Originally intended to depict the splendor of an entire people, the tombs gave an ill-boding that reminded her of a graveyard. Shadows danced within shadows. She felt as if she was being watched. Vile eyes marking her every movement. Paranoia washed through her frail body.
Elsyn fought off the mounting fright and rested her gaze on the dashing young warrior in golden armor. She caught herself sighing and silently reprimanded herself. What would her father think of her indecent behavior? A royal princess and heir to the throne pining over a soldier. Memories of her father stole into her and she felt her heart sink further. Father! How cruel the world is to take you from me!
“What’s wrong?” Amean asked, in a low voice with genuine concern.
Elsyn shifted uneasily in the saddle, startled by the unexpected interruption. “I was just thinking of my father.”
He knew it. Grief and loss were difficult to accept and then discard. “He was a brave man, princess. Wise and strong. He …”
“Please. You don’t have to patronize him on my account. He knew he was going to die. I told him months ago. It’s strange, but I almost feel as if his death has an integral part in the way the rest of this is being played out.”
She fell silent, once again becoming enshrouded in her personal mystery. Amean turned back to Aron, who had heard the entire conversation. He shrugged his shoulders and continued to ride behind Karin, oblivious to Elsyn’s infatuation.
They came at last to a grove of mighty trees nestled atop a small knoll. They stretched over a hundred feet into the air, shining with silver bark. Branches spread as if the world was theirs, none of them touching. Small, yellow birds peered out from behind leaves that kept them secluded from prying eyes. They sprang to life upon sensing the elf, giving those new arrivals the gift of their song.
“Behold! The Druinna Calar!” Andolus cried in adulation. Joy and relief spread, the first any but Long Shadow had seen in him.
Elsyn immediately lost her fear of shadows and those things that go bump in the night. The trees were the most beautiful sight she’d ever witnessed, far surpassing the castle fortress of Galdarath. They almost appeared surreal, as if made from the paint of a god’s eye. Vivid colors spiraled in her head. Each passing moment saw her hopes rise, her spirit strengthened.
“Here we shall camp. No darkling will dare attack us so long as the Druinna Calar protect. Nothing evil can exist close to their eternal boughs,” Andolus explained, as he dismounted and hurried to the nearest tree.
Andolus took a deep breath as he reached a tentative hand out to the smooth bark. Flesh and bark combined, sending ripples of ancient emotion through his tired body. With a sigh, he faced his friends and said, “Be at ease. We are well protected in the warmth of the trees. We are safe.”
For the time being.
THREE
Changing of the Guard
Laughter, happiness, joy and peace died along with the beloved king. Mirth and love turned sour to the grim tunes of the funeral dirge echoing through the city streets. Mixed emotions divided the population. Most wept openly, lost in the grief of their departed king. Elian was well loved by young and old alike. Anger and rage filled their once complacent, gentle hearts.
A call to arms was raised by patriots and self-proclaimed vigilantes. Small riots in protest broke out, inflicting minor damage to the already beleaguered city. Jent Tariens sent in units of the royal guard and army reserves to quell the unrest and restore order before madness claimed them all. In the three short days since the death of King Elian, Galdarath had become a living nightmare.
Jent Tariens stared into the vastness of wilderness surrounding Galdarath with his empty eyes. Reflections of watch fires danced across his face, adding age where none should be. He was tired, mentally and physically pushed far beyond normal constraints. Sleep had become a rarity. Every hour it seemed a new problem arose, another riot in the streets erupted. Just the day before, he received word that vandals had un
earthed the carefully hidden and disguised grave of Artle Colinger and cut his body to shreds. The head was found on the doorstep of another suspected of being one of the Black’s puppets. Soldiers swarmed in and managed to successfully recover most of the body before stray dogs got the rest.
Jent heard Harrin Slinmyer come up from behind and smiled. They had become fast friends over the past few weeks and his company was usually able to take Jent’s mind from the continual pains of the day.
“There are times when I truly believe the Black has already won,” Jent said in a shallow voice, so that none of the others nearby overheard. “I’m not ready to rule a kingdom.”
“There is no better man in all of Galdarath,” Harrin said. The words bothered him, for now was the time for stern and good leadership, not dithering rumination.
“Field Marshal Dlorn should be where I now stand. Even the princess,” Jent continued.
“Dlorn wages war against the enemy far to the north and Elsyn rides for her life.” Harrin’s voice turned serious. “You were handpicked by the king. Not a fledgling lord or boy prince, but a soldier. A soldier in whom the confidence of an entire kingdom has been placed. Will you let the people suffer more than they already have?”
Dark thoughts floated through Jent’s brooding mind. Steward of Galdea. He snorted. Handpicked by the king. He found it all hard to accept. There must be others more qualified to lead. A season ago, he’d been a mere captain of the guard. Now… There must have been over a hundred minor nobles and others with royal blood clamoring to get to the empty throne. He snorted again. They were all scared away by that bastard wizard.
“Has any news returned from Dlorn’s army?” he asked.
“None, as of yet. You must remember that an entire army separates us, somewhere between the mountains and the Twins. It could take weeks for a messenger to circle around and find a way through,” Harrin answered with a shrug.
Jent growled at that last. The main body of the army could already have been annihilated and we’d have no way of knowing. The whole world crumbled a little more each day and he was helpless to prevent it.
“We need positive proof that they haven’t engaged the darklings yet. Events are moving entirely too fast and beyond our sphere of influence,” Jent said. “Time. We need more time.”
Harrin laid a caring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You try too hard. Dlorn knows what must be done. He has close to twenty thousand men and elves at his command. They will be enough until the other kingdoms can be mustered.”
“Will they? I am fearful to deploy any additional forces. What should happen to this city, if we become defenseless? The elves speak of vast armies of darklings, numbering in the hundreds of thousands. No one knows exactly how many devils from Suroc Tol the Drehenzia created. I cannot leave Galdea unprotected. I will not.”
The former captain of the guard moved to the next fire. He took small comfort in the simple warming of hands. It reminded him of better times.
“With our guard and reserves, we can mobilize at least another ten thousand men. A formidable force on any field,” Harrin reminded.
Jent waggled a finger at him. “Against a mortal army. These devils drop from the very skies to tear us apart. How can we defend against an enemy with flight capability?”
Harrin had no answer.
Jent shook his head. “I need to speak with Felbar. Either him or Dlorn.”
Harrin’s eyes widened in shock. “You cannot jeopardize this kingdom on the folly of one man! What happens when you die? Who becomes king?”
“Does it matter? Does anything matter anymore?” He threw his arms up in futility. “The wizard and his host are more powerful than anything we have ever encountered. The Hierarchy has yet to dispatch a relief force other than Aron Kryte and his few. Nothing we do here in Galdea will avail. Why not take the glory of our force and meet an end worthy of legend?”
“Have you any idea what you are saying?” Harrin asked in horror. The conversation was quickly getting out of control. “How can you sacrifice everything we have done to make this land strong, just because? You were chosen for a reason, Jent. A madness is in your brain. You must fight it!”
“I must get word to the main army.”
Jent made to move on down the wall but Harrin blocked him.
“I won’t let you pass,” he growled.
“Get out of my way, Harrin,” Jent warned. “I have business to attend.”
He took another step and was met by the sharp song of steel being brandished.
“Any means necessary,” Harrin said. “The lives of every man, woman, and child are more important than a man stricken with weakness. Do not let the dark wizard win this early in the game. You were chosen. You must rule. Who are you to defy the wish of a king?”
Young Jent Tariens edged his breast against the tip of the blade. He wanted to break and run. To let Harrin run him through, if only to end the insanity. End it all now, before the devils of Suroc Tol swarmed over the walls one final time. Tears welled before bursting free to stream down his face. He sagged against the unbending strength of steel, crumbling to the floor an emotional wreck. He held his face in his hands and cried out in sorrow.
“I can’t do it,” he whispered amidst sobs. “I’m not strong enough. Not strong enough at all.”
Harrin’s first instinct was to ensure none of the men on duty could see their commander in such a state. Once done, he shoved his sword away and sat opposite of his friend. “No better king than Elian was there. Strong and wise. Those who were not in awe of the man, feared him. No one questioned his decisions, leastwise not openly. Jent, he made you his successor. No one will question his last command.”
Palace guards marched in step down Galdarath’s main avenue in search of brewing trouble. The city was slowly devolving into a military state. Other guards followed, though in far different attire. They wore gowns of deep blue, their polished armor glittered with jewels bright enough to rival the sun. Many of them had never had the opportunity to wear such before. Today was a special day, one in which all citizens could vent their grief and bid farewell to a well-loved man. Today was the funeral march of King Elian.
Grim faced, the guards marched with crisp, exaggerated movements. Their polished boots echoed like thunder down the crowded corridors of the aged city. Proud standards of the House of Elian waved like beacons amidst the despair. A pair of drummers beat a powerful dirge that reminded all of what had happened. A hundred men marched in front of the wagon-borne king. Another hundred followed behind.
Men and women crowded the streets in throngs. Most wept openly for both their departed king and the future. Small children pointed from between parents’ legs as the casket rambled past. Six men in silver robes flanked the open wagon. The plumes on their helmets waved slightly with each step. None of the guardians so much as glanced at the crowds. Flowers were thrown before the wagon. Prayers and oaths uttered.
This day all forgot the cold and accepted the warmth of sorrow and futility. Many vividly recalled images of their king sitting high atop his grey steed, strong and proud, erect with the confidence of the world as he waved and greeted them at every convenience. That was how they wished to remember the king. Not as merely a corpse stolen from them before his time.
Who now would lead them against the dark tide already running rampant across the kingdom?
As if in answer, Jent Tariens stood in the most elegant dress uniform. Pressed and creased, his blouse and trousers were rivalled by the high shine of boots worn only on the most important occasions. A thin rapier was belted at his hip. Once the formality and ceremony were finished, he would return to the more familiar and comfortable war attire.
He greeted Elian’s body at the gates of the small royal cemetery, head bowed low in respect. Harrin Slinmyer was there as well, off to the side, along with several minor nobles trapped in the city by fear. The gates were opened as the wagon rolled to a stop. An honor guard stepped forward to line the road. On comman
d, swords were drawn and raised in a bridge over the path. The funeral procession halted. In unison, the six men faced the casket and gently lifted. The wagon was led away.
Jent did a precise about-face and marched the pall bearers to their destination. Throngs of citizens crowded in after, though only kin and royalty was allowed within the hallowed walls. Among the hundreds of anxious faces stood one tiny and insignificant woman. She watched all with growing interest, mixed with concern. She tried searching through the crowds for the one she needed to see, but was met by disappointment. Curiosity peaked, Anni Sickali slipped through the crowds and set about the plans she once hoped wouldn’t become necessary.
The broken, battered, and burned form of Halvor finally dug out from under the debris that was once sacred ground. His first sights abhorred him. Bile choked his throat. He swallowed it back down and crawled to the first body. A quick inspection showed that virtually all his brothers were dead, murdered by the Black. Two sat upright against the far wall with mouths open from the agony of being burned alive. Fragments of crimson robes clung to their charred flesh. Halvor himself was naked. His robes having been torn away by the wizard’s magic.
Bruises and cuts blanketed his frail body. Most of his hair was burned away and his right leg felt like it was broken. He smiled grimly. The others had always considered him the lucky one. The Red Brotherhood wasn’t finished, however. Other cells were scattered throughout the kingdoms. Halvor lacked any knowledge of how to contact them though. He sighed. Halvor the elf, priest of the Red Brotherhood, was left alone to carry on the quest of stopping the Black Imelin from gaining the Staff of Life.
He looked in disgust at the dead soldiers. Imelin’s men. Their deaths hadn’t been pleasant either, from all appearances. The big man impaled to the wall was curious, for he didn’t fit in with the others. He wasn’t a soldier. Halvor decided he was just an unfortunate caught up in the illusion of power. He took a closer look and reeled back. Those eyes! He’d never seen such horror permanently etched within a man’s eyes. Halvor felt honest fear for the second time.
The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2 Page 3