Lannon was still shocked that the thing in the old house had held him under its spell all day long. He realized the object was best left to rot in that upstairs room, protected by the forest full of Stonemen. It had been created by the Dark Watchmen after they had been consumed by the Deep Shadow, and Lannon speculated that it had been placed in that house so no one would be able to get their hands on it. There it could remain for centuries, untouched, until another Dark Watchman dared to seek it. But Lannon would not be the one, for he sensed the object could corrupt his soul. As powerful as it was, he wanted no part of it. His goal now was simply to survive this attack and escape Old Hill Forest.
As the wall of Stonemen closed in, Lannon realized he needed a new strategy--that he had to start being more inventive with the Eye. He only had seconds to ponder it, and ultimately he reacted more on instinct than anything else, flooding himself with the Eye and using it to shield his flesh. He then charged forward into the crowd of zombies, smashing them aside like a battering ram. He drove through the heavy Stonemen, scattering them, and emerged into the forest at a full run, moving toward the Watchmen's Keep.
Lannon was delighted that the strategy had worked, but the Stonemen charged after him with a crashing of underbrush, angry howls, and their evil stench reaching his nostrils. They weren't far behind, and Lannon was forced to keep moving as fast as he could, knowing that tripping over a root or rock could be fatal. The effort of shielding himself from harm significantly drained his speed, and he considered casting aside all protection in favor of sheer velocity. But the memory of what had happened last time--the Stoneman's arm catching him by surprise and caving in his ribs--persuaded him to maintain his shielding energy.
Lannon raced over a few hills and then entered another small clearing. An enormous oak with sprawling branches stood at the middle of the field like a dark cloud in the moonlight--the largest tree Lannon had encountered in the forest thus far. Lannon realized he'd been drawn to the clearing somehow, for going there had taken him a bit out of his way. The Eye of Divinity revealed something horrific standing near the oak--a towering figure of armor, bone, and shifting shadows. Lannon glimpsed black eye sockets beneath a horned helm, and a gleaming sword adorned with demonic faces. The Eye probed deeper, revealing a Barloak demon leftover from the ancient war against all life, a creature that fancied itself a warlord and a soldier and that was always seeking to expand its domain. It had never surrendered and still fought on under the banner of Tharnin. The word Bloodeye entered Lannon's mind--a nickname for the creature because of an old wound in its skull that never healed and leaked black blood. This was the puppet master of Old Hill Forest. Flanking the demon were six warriors holding swords--mostly bone beneath armor like their master.
For a moment, Lannon was so stunned and overwhelmed by fear that he did nothing. He was in disbelief that a Barloak demon still walked the land. He doubted he would stand a chance against it in combat. But then whispers invaded his mind, challenging him to battle one of the lesser soldiers. If Lannon prevailed, he would be allowed to safely leave the forest. If he lost, however, he would be forced to surrender and join the demon's army.
For several moments, Lannon didn't answer the challenge. He wasn't even sure any of this was real. For all he knew, this was some illusion of the Deep Shadow meant to lead him astray. The Eye should have reassured him, but he didn't trust it was showing him the truth. Sometimes even that power could be confused. But he sensed the Barloak demon was growing impatient, and he needed to make a decision. It might have all been an illusion, but with no way of knowing for sure, Lannon was forced to assume it was real.
Lannon called out his acceptance of the duel and started forward. Meanwhile, the Stonemen gathered around the edge of the clearing, forming a solid wall of grey bodies. They were content to stand and watch.
One of the Barloak demon's warriors came out to confront Lannon--a lurching humanoid figure made of armor-covered bone and shifting shadows. A skeletal face, half lost in darkness, grinned at Lannon from beneath a black helm. Like the Stonemen, this creature wasn't dead or alive--but somewhere in between. It was the bony remains of a warrior now infested by a lesser demon.
As the two fighters clashed in a blur of sword strokes, Lannon was surprised by his foe's speed. He was also surprised that the warrior's sword held up against Lannon's Dragon sword. Lannon launched one furious attack after the next, but the warrior managed to effortlessly block every move. Lannon's ribs burned with pain, but he ignored it and fought on.
At last Lannon's sword crashed down on the warrior's helm--a very stout blow backed by a mighty surge of the Eye. The helm split and the skull beneath was cleaved in two. The creature was driven to the grass in a crumpled heap, the dark sorcery leaving it like black smoke.
Lannon glanced toward the Barloak demon for confirmation that he'd won the duel, but no such signal came. He sensed rage building in the demon. At last, he sheathed his sword and fled.
The Stonemen parted to let him through, and then he was racing along over the wooded hills again. This time he heard no signs of pursuit. The forest was dreadfully silent, and Lannon didn't trust it. Suddenly he found himself moving through a thick fog that seemed to completely engulf him. He allowed the Eye to lead him on, again wondering if the entire experience with the Stonemen and their leader had been an illusion. Yet his body was terribly sore, his injuries real enough.
The fog became so thick that it seemed to block out even the Eye, and suddenly Lannon wasn't sure he was moving in the right direction. Then he noticed grass beneath his feet and moonlight overhead. He broke through the wall of fog and found himself standing in open grassland. Glancing behind him, he didn't see any fog at all--as if he'd never even passed through it. But he did see the dark and tangled Old Hill Forest looming over him. With a shudder, Lannon turned his back to it and hurried on across the grassy hills toward the Watchman's Keep.
Chapter 8: The Drums of War
Once again the Battle Drum sounded in the depths of Old Hammer Hall, beaten by the gnarled hand of a Cave Troll--a reminder that war was near. The sounds of hammers striking weapons and armor also rang throughout the fortress, as the blacksmiths worked day and night in the forge, their weary bodies streaked with soot and sweat. Old Hammer Hall crawled with dark tension and madness, the torture chambers filled with the cries of the punished. Paranoia over spying had spread throughout the Soldiers' ranks, resulting in a devastating purge that snared the innocent along with the guilty. Meanwhile drooling Goblins, made eager for war by the Drum, crept through the torch-lit stone halls, yellow eyes gleaming from the shadows and bodies tense with the desire to tear into human flesh.
The shadows of dark sorcery hung thick about the keep, oozing from every corner--the feeling that the end of all things had come and that all must suffer and die in the name of honor. It left a fanatical glint in the warriors' eyes and the belief in their minds that they must ride forth to glory and doom.
In the Dining Chamber, Omharal sat hunched over his platter of food, his breathing labored and his face bearing a ghastly expression in the torchlight. The venison, squash, and potatoes hadn't yet been touched, with no butter, gravy, or salt having been applied. A loaf of bread lay uncut on a cloth. However, a flask of Birlote wine stood uncorked and partially consumed.
"You should eat something, my lord," said Ethella. You should eat your last meal, she thought. Omharal was soon to depart from the world, the wounds inflicted by Timlin Woodmaster and his Black Flamestone too much even for the High Wizard of Bellis to overcome. It seemed a shame that he wouldn't touch such delicious food, when he perhaps only had hours to live.
Omharal ignored her, reaching up to rub the bandages on his chest. The lean Birlote alchemist with the hard face and cold eyes was not dying with dignity by any means. The grimace of rage and hatred that periodically contorted his face showed what he was thinking. The Deep Shadow radiated from him in sickening waves--almost too much even for Ethella to handle. Omharal had g
iven himself completely to Tharnin, and now it was Tharnin alone that sustained his life and offered him a chance at revenge. The High Wizard had traded his soul for a chance to punish Taris Warhawk and his Divine Knights.
"Please eat a bite or two, my lord," she said again.
With a sigh, Omharal picked up his fork, gazed at it, then laid it down again. "I have no appetite." He lifted a large golden goblet and sipped some of the Birlote wine. His shaking hand caused the wine to spill down his chest, soaking his bandages in crimson, as if new blood had sprung from the wound. A servant reached forth with a cloth to wipe his chest, but Omharal shoved him away.
Ethella bowed her head, overcome by despair. Omharal was her key to advancing her position of authority. With the Blood Legion weakened to the point of near extinction, the next step for Ethella was to secure a place with Bellis Kingdom. King Verlamer's wife was dead, and Ethella saw a chance at possibly being queen of all Gallamerth. Many would have considered her delusional, but she had absolute confidence in her cunning and sorcery. But she still needed a doorway through which to enter Bellis, and that doorway was closing fast. Once Omharal was dead, Bellis would probably ignore her--or even worse, they might send someone to replace Omharal who wasn't as fond of her as the High Wizard.
Perhaps none of it mattered anyway. Omharal was determined to lead the Blood Legion into a war he couldn't win. He fully expected everyone to die along with him at the hands of the Divine Knights. Ethella wished there was some way to avoid the battle, but she knew in the depths of her soul it was going to happen. Everyone in Old Hammer Hall knew it, and most were ready to die. But dying was the last thing Ethella intended for herself. She wanted to rule the land forever, while bringing glory to Tharnin. She'd always felt it was her destiny to make the people of Gallamerth grovel at her feet. Yet now she was beginning to wonder if her real destiny was to die on some miserable battlefield by the sword of a Divine Knight who cared nothing for her dreams. She could only hope there was a way she could escape the carnage without looking like a coward.
If only Omharal would just die now! she thought.
The Battle Drum sounded again, and Omharal slammed his shaking fist down on the table. "War is coming," he mumbled. "Suffering and bloodshed the like of which Silverland has never seen. It is the will of...the Dark Gnome."
Ethella nodded, but wondered if he was insane. The Dark Gnome? What was he talking about? Ethella was a Priestess of Tharnin, but she'd never heard anyone speak of a Dark Gnome with such reverence in this day and age. Did he mean Benezeta of the forge, the ancient Olrog deity? It didn't matter. Omharal was slipping away right before her eyes.
"The Dark Gnome created life," said Omharal, as if sensing her thoughts, "in his forge. He first made it twisted and ugly and named it Tharnin. Later, he hammered out the flaws, beginning with the black ice. This is what I am told."
Ethella could only nod. She'd never heard such a tale and had no idea what to make of it. She was aware of several important deities of Tharnin--including the Great Beast itself that spawned the Dragons--but none of them were responsible for creating the world of the Deep Shadow. "And you pray to this...Dark Gnome?"
"With time slipping away," said Omharal, "all I have left are myths and legends. But maybe they are enough. Yes, I pray that my soul will find peace in the lair of my master. Yet this troubles me greatly. If he is a creator of life, then he could allow me to live on...perhaps forever. Yet he allows me to wither away."
At a loss for words, Ethella simply nodded again. Omharal's mind seemed to indeed be failing, filled with bizarre beliefs. The High Wizard was searching for hope in the depths of madness. It was pathetic. Birlotes were beyond her comprehension to begin with, and she didn't try to understand them.
Omharal took another sip of wine, and again he spilled it. The servant reached forth with the cloth, and this time Omharal didn't resist. He glared at the servant but said nothing, waiting for the wine to be wiped from his bandages.
"I am glad the Greater Wolf was released from its prison," the High Wizard said, nodding to himself. "So very glad to unleash the beast upon Silverland. It will bring about great suffering before all is said and done. Thus, I can take some measure of satisfaction to my grave."
Ethella managed a smile, pleased he was speaking of something she could comprehend. "It was a good decision, my lord. Surely the beast will bring glory to Tharnin." She wasn't so sure of that, however. Secretly, she feared the ancient Goblin and wondered if it would eventually turn against her. The Blood Legion had kept the Wolf prisoner for centuries in the depths of Old Hammer Hall, locked away in a frozen pit deep within earth and rock--waiting for some desperate hour to set it free. Fear had kept the Legion Council from releasing the beast, but Omharal was in command now and he had no fear. With a wave of his hand and an order from his lips, the seal of Tharnin had been broken and the Wolf had clawed its way up from the deep.
Strangely, the Wolf had seemed to take commands from Omharal. The High Wizard had stood before it fearlessly on the edge of the foggy pit, whispering his will into its ear, and the Wolf had bounded off from Old Hammer Hall to do his bidding. But Ethella didn't think Omharal's hold over it would last. The Wolf was too wild and unpredictable to be controlled for long.
"The beast will bring about Dremlock's ruin," said Ethella. "I know it in my heart. I have dreamt of it, my lord." That much was true.
Omharal's face contorted again with bitterness. "Yet I won't be here to see it. Who knows where my spirit will lurk? If my master ignores my prayers, perhaps only in darkness and despair." He hurled his goblet against the wall, nearly striking a huge, bearded Legion Knight who stood with battle axe in hand. The Knight didn't move and his face remained stony, a fanatical glint in his eye.
"It is quite unfair!" the High Wizard bellowed. "I have lived such a long time and gained so much wisdom and power... I expected to rule the land with King Verlamer for centuries. But it will not come to pass. I am forced into the embrace of death, far too early for my liking. And that is why I hate all life and all people. If I am to be cheated like this, I want everyone else to be cheated as well."
"They deserve it, my lord," said Ethella. However, she couldn't help but feel disgust toward Omharal. When it came down to it, the High Wizard of Bellis was a petty man crushed by the weight of his own ego. He gave no thought to anyone but himself. Ethella was a cold-hearted Priestess who would gladly lie, cheat, steal, and murder to get what she wanted, as long as Tharnin Law allowed it, but she did possess some measure of loyalty to those she felt deserved it. Omharal, however, was evil in a way that even Ethella couldn't understand.
Omharal gazed at his food, then shoved the platter aside. "I am even cheated out of the pleasure of eating, here in my final hours."
Ethella sighed, faking a look of grave concern. "Perhaps you should let the healers examine you again." It was a pointless statement, but she found herself uttering it regardless.
"Useless," he muttered. "Not even the best healers of Bellis could save me now. I know for a fact I am doomed. I know because the Voice of Tharnin whispers the truth into my ear. I live only because of my master now. You, as a Priestess, should understand this. I have been given just enough time to lead this wretched Blood Legion into battle--just enough time to kill Taris Warhawk and anyone else I can kill before I take my last breath. I will cheat them of life as I am being cheated! I will show them how a Wizard dies!" He shook his fist at the heavens. "Cheat me, oh creator of life, and I will cheat others and leave terrible misery in my wake!" He went into a coughing fit, and a trickle of blood ran from his mouth.
Ethella's eyes widened. She thought it might end here and now. She prayed to Tharnin that his health would give out before her eyes--yet it was Tharnin that extended his life, and the dark energy refused to yield.
Omharal wiped the blood away. He straightened his back, looking suddenly invigorated. "To war we go, my dear." As he finished speaking, the Battle Drum boomed in agreement below.
Chapter 9: War in Hethos
After Furlus Goblincrusher and ten Knights departed for Dremlock, Taris' battalion journeyed on around the western end of the Firepit Mountains and into the forestlands of Hethos. The spring weather was warm and pleasant for traveling, with sunny skies overhead. But once they found themselves in Hethos, the sky darkened over the sprawling forests, threatening rain.
As if the changing weather were a bad omen, they soon received news from their spies that the Blood Legion was advancing toward them rapidly from the northeast--led by Omharal and Ethella. It was reported that Omharal was still deeply injured from his encounter with the Black Flamestone and was perhaps bent on a suicidal mission. Taris could have simply tried to outrun the Legion on the route to Kalamede, but he knew sooner or later he would have to confront them.
"I suspect this will be a bloody battle," Taris informed the Knights. "We won't escape with a mere duel this time. Omharal is barely alive and has nothing to lose. But better we fight them here than in Kalamede."
"The Blood Legion must know they cannot win," said Trenton. "They are seeking simply to slow us and kill as many Divine Knights as possible."
The Blood of Kings (Book 4) Page 8