“Damn the orcs!” Corvus let his emotions run wild. “There are more of them still alive out there! More refugees!” He slammed his fist into the bone wall of the star room and knocked several remains from their resting places. “We must go back. There are more refugees still hiding among the rubble.”
“There are,” Asterion whispered. “Of that, you can be certain. But they will be little more than corpses by time you reach them again.”
Leaving so many people to die violent deaths at the hands of a rampaging orc clan was too much for Corvus to try and accept. “We’ll take horses! The fastest horses! We can make it back to the caravan in four days!” Even as he spoke, Corvus knew the caravan was at least a week’s ride from Talonrend. The refugees would likely die in less than a few hours when the orc clan fell upon them once more.
“They are with Vrysinoch now, Corvus,” Asterion chided. “Pray for their souls, but keep them out of your mind.”
Corvus turned from the old priest and shook his head. “It isn’t fair,” he told the bones that lined the walls. “We could have saved them…”
The sound of metal scraping against metal drew the attention of everyone still in the star room. In the corner farthest from the door, Gideon held Nevidal firmly in one hand and the sword’s sheath in the other. With a grunt, he dropped the sheath the ground and wrapped both of hands around Nevidal’s hilt.
The few remaining paladins gasped and backed away. They had heard stories and knew what drawing the blade meant.
“Gideon,” Asterion said with authority that denied his exhaustion. He opened his eyes and watched him swing the weapon slowly through the air. “Think, Gideon,” Asterion spoke.
Silent tension filled the room and refused to let anyone breathe. Moving lightly about the corner of the room, Gideon executed a short practice routine with the weapon as though he was preparing for a fight in the arena.
Turning back to stare Asterion directly in the eyes, Gideon tossed the blade from one hand to the other.
In an instant, a storm cloud of ire washed over Gideon’s visage and he slammed Nevidal into the ground with a primal scream. He left the room, and his sword, behind without another word.
“Where will we go?” Vorst asked Corvus as he exited the star room. Asterion hobbled along at the man’s side. “Is it safe?”
Corvus thought for a moment before responding. “I will speak to Herod on your behalf,” he declared with a smile.
“What makes you think he will listen?” Asterion posited. “The prince has been known to be rather stubborn at times.”
Corvus’ mind wandered back to before he lost his vision. He had never met the prince of Talonrend, or anyone of royal blood, for that matter. He used to be a regular paladin—one of dozens. Being a natural leader, he had risen to a favored position among the other paladins on the road, but that was when there had been people to protect. Miles from Talonrend, the ascended paladin commanded significant respect and obedience. Inside Terror’s Lament, Corvus was unsure of his station.
“I suppose…” he thought aloud, “that I would have very little influence over the prince’s mind, even if I were to speak with him.”
Asterion chuckled and let out a long sigh. “Perhaps you two could claim one of the abandoned houses near the Tower as your own? On the other side of the Clawflow, how do goblins live? Do you build houses in your society?”
Vorst shook her head. Thinking about Kanebullar Mountain filled her with both trepidation and joy. “I lived in a cave next to my shop,” she explained. Vorst tried to recall memories of the mountain—the smells, the constant and familiar temperature, the calm darkness of the winding tunnels—but she could not. Scraps of memories floated to her mind like leaves sinking into a rushing stream. For a brief moment, Vorst had to consider the possibility that her memories of her home were somehow linked to Lady Scrapple’s mind.
“Are you alright?” Asterion asked, staring down at her stern expression.
“Yes…” she replied. “Just…” Vorst didn’t know how to begin to explain her newly acquired mental freedom and the consequences that came with it. She could barely fathom it herself. “One of the abandoned houses should be fine,” she finally declared.
GIDEON, A TOWER of seething violence, stormed through the lower levels of the Tower of Wings. Smashing marble busts and priceless portraits as he went, the furious man climbed the twelve staircases that led to the highest floor. A banded wooden door met him at the top.
His fists pounded into the door relentlessly. “Archbishop!” he yelled between strikes. “Open the damned door!” There was no response.
“Archbishop!” he continued to shout until his voice was hoarse. Finally, one of the door’s metal bands began to splinter and cave inwards. Gideon snatched a small marble statuette from a pillar next to the door and used it to pry open one of the planks. After a great deal of work, he had enough room to reach an arm inside and lift the locking bar from its place.
The wooden door swung open silently. Gideon hesitated. He had never before set foot inside the Archbishop’s quarters. In fact, he had only seen the Archbishop a handful of times, and always from afar. He remembered the man to be portly, with thick red hair and a wispy beard that grew down to his chest.
Gideon took a slow step over the threshold and called out once more. A bird clattered against the glass wall, but all else was frighteningly still. A huge mirror stood against one of the circular walls next to a delicate tapestry showing Vrysinoch flying above the citizens of Talonrend.
“Archbishop?” Gideon called once more. A thin curtain separated a small sleeping nook from the rest of the single suite. For all the opulence of the tower, Gideon had expected lavish furnishings fit for a king. The meager trappings in the room made him uneasy. He keenly felt Nevidal’s absence and instinctively reached for an axe on his belt, forgetting that they had all been lost.
Gideon grumbled and cracked his knuckles. He didn’t expect a fight, but something about the man’s quarters greatly unnerved him. “Archbishop?” he called once more to no avail. His hand felt the edge of the simple cloth guarding the sleeping quarters and Gideon slowly pulled it back. The stench of death stung his nostrils and made him turn away.
Rot had set in long ago. The Archbishop’s body was crumpled in the corner of the sleeping area with a dagger buried to the hilt in his chest. “Murder…”
Gideon ran down the winding staircases as quickly as he could. “Asterion!” he called out, finding the old priest asleep in a high-backed chair. “Asterion!” he shook him from his slumber.
“Yes? Can’t it wait?” he protested. His frail body looked worse than ever. It was obvious the creation of the portal had nearly killed him.
“I’m sorry,” Gideon stammered. “The Archbishop is dead.” Gideon didn’t know any other way to say it.
“What?” Asterion roared, suddenly alive with uncharacteristic anger. “You killed the Archbishop?”
Bewildered at the accusation, Gideon took a step backward and held his hands out before him. “What? No!” he yelled, pointing to the staircase. “He was murdered!”
Asterion narrowed his eyes at Gideon. “Why didn’t you just say that?” the priest chided. Breathing heavily from his sudden outburst, Asterion turned and began to slowly climb the many stairs that led to the top of the Tower of Wings.
When they reached the top, Asterion took a long moment to collect himself and slow his heart rate. “You know, I’ve only been in this room once before,” he said. The priest inspected the broken panel of the banded door with a frown. “When the goblins were spotted outside the city, I came here to deliver the news to the Archbishop. As a battle priest, I would have been given command of the paladins. As you said before, the paladins could have held the field for days against the siege.”
Gideon suppressed the anger that made his hands ball into fists. “What was his reasoning? Why stand down?”
Asterion sighed. “He warned of a trap,” he said with a shrug. �
��The Archbishop feared moving the paladins outside the city would make them vulnerable. When I tried to reason with him, he sent me away and told me he would take command of the soldiers personally should the need arise. So we sat in the Tower throughout the entire battle.” There was more guilt in Asterion’s voice than anything else.
Gideon pushed the broken door open and stepped lightly into the Archbishop’s quarters once more. The same bird clattered noisily against the glass wall and flew away.
“Perhaps,” Asterion pondered, “the Archbishop was not in his right mind in the days prior to the siege?” He pulled the curtain away from the sleeping area and covered his mouth with a hand. “He has certainly been dead for quite some time,” he remarked.
“Who would have reason to kill him?” Gideon asked. While he had always resented the theocratic leadership, he had never seriously considered killing the Archbishop himself.
“I heard tales the royal assistant turned out to be a conspirator in league with the goblins.” Asterion slowly removed the dagger from the Archbishop’s gut and inspected it. “Preventing the paladins from leaving the tower certainly helped his cause, I do believe.”
Gideon mulled over the possibilities. “How could a human ever choose to help goblins?”
Asterion laughed aloud and set the dagger down on the Archbishop’s bed. “Have you not done that very thing? Haven’t we all?” he jested.
“You know what I meant,” Gideon scowled. For all of his resentment toward Vrysinoch, the Archbishop, and almost every authority figure he had ever met, Gideon loved Talonrend and could not imagine betraying his city.
“We must tell Herod, if the prince still lives,” Asterion said, tossing the dagger next to the Archbishop’s corpse.
“Let me get my sword,” Gideon said with a sigh. His empty scabbard made him feel like less of a man. He had carried Nevidal on his back every single day since Master Brenning had made it for him a dozen or so years before. He had still been a paladin in good standing then, before he forsook the life of religion and decided to write his own destiny.
Asterion and Gideon descended the stairs slowly. The priest’s old legs were so wracked with exhaustion he was barely able to walk. With Gideon’s supporting arm, they made it back into the bowels of the Tower of Wings and stood before the open door of the star room once more.
“I’m not sure why Vrysinoch has cast me out so completely,” Gideon remarked. “The moment I stepped inside that room, I could feel him abandon me. Why is the star room different from the rest of the Tower, Asterion? Why have I been punished for entering?”
Asterion leaned against the stone wall and shook his head. “The star room has always been shrouded in mystery,” he explained. “I was first taken here on the night of my ordination, much like the paladins are when they complete their first segment of training. We were taught to speak to the bones, and they readily responded. However, none of the priests could explain how the spirits of the dead have remained here. The star room is a sacred place, of that I have no doubt. I’m sorry you were forced to enter, but I knew no other way.”
“Do not blame yourself, Asterion,” Gideon said. “You did the right thing.” With a hesitant step, Gideon crossed the threshold into the room once more. He tensed, waiting for a sensation, anything, that would indicate the presence of Vrysinoch. Besides a slight temperature drop, he felt nothing. The bones were silent.
Gideon wrapped a hand around Nevidal’s hilt. He flexed and pulled, but the blade did not budge. Using both of his hands, Gideon tried to wrench the sword from the soft earth that held it, but he could not even begin to move the weapon.
Suddenly, as Gideon let his hands fall from the hilt, he felt Vrysinoch’s presence rush back to him. The holy symbol tattooed on his shoulder flared brilliantly to life and Gideon’s mind swam in the presence of the deity.
You are not worthy to wield my blade, Gideon of Talonrend. Vrysinoch’s hissing voice flooded his consciousness and overwhelmed his senses. You abandoned me long ago…
Gideon grunted and fell to his knees. With all the mental fortitude he could muster, Gideon tried to force Vrysinoch from his mind. Like a twig pushing against a mountain, Vrysinoch did not leave.
Such arrogance! Vrysinoch screeched in his mind. The piercing voice was enough to make Gideon’s eardrums throb and rattle with pain. You think to command me? Vrysinoch laughed and cawed. The god’s voice, part human and part avian, rang with a hint of palpable magic that Asterion could feel from the doorway. The old priest took a step back and began reciting prayers for Gideon’s safety.
“What more do you want from me?” Gideon spat. He grabbed Nevidal’s hilt again and pulled himself up to his knees. “How many more souls?”
Vrysinoch’s hideous laugh filled the room and shook hundreds of bones from their resting places along the walls. For a moment, Gideon feared the star room might collapse and bring the entire Tower of Wings crashing down on his head.
There is only one more soul you must harvest, Gideon of Talonrend. With a flash of light, the star room erupted with whirling souls. Ghastly blue images danced around the room before congealing into a single image. Seated on two powerful legs before Gideon was the image of a massive, skeletal dragon. The dragon pulsed with power, but did not move.
“You want me to slay a dragon…” Gideon breathed in disbelief. “It cannot be done.”
The souls began to slowly fade, or so it appeared. Like liquid dripping from the floor into the air above, fragments of the ghostly image seeped away from the dragon’s body. Gideon stared with wonder as the skeletal beast started melting apart. Then, with a snap, the dripping cords of oozing ghost violently straightened above the dragon’s body.
Gideon studied the image, but couldn’t understand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He feared if he failed Vrysinoch one more time, it wouldn’t be his sword stuck to the floor of the star room—it would be his soul.
“Marionette strings…” Asterion muttered from the doorway with an awestruck expression. As soon as the words left his lips, the image of the dragon vanished and the room became uncomfortably silent.
Gideon gave one final tug on Nevidal’s hilt before exiting the room. “What does it mean?” he asked.
“I can’t be sure,” Asterion hesitantly replied, “but I believe you are to find a skeletal dragon and slay the one who controls it.”
Gideon scoffed and made for the staircase. “Sounds easy,” he called over his shoulder. “Especially without my sword.”
THE DRAWBRIDGE LEADING to Castle Talon creaked beneath Gideon’s weight. Men with crossbows guarded the parapet, but they were few and far between. “Does the prince still live?” Gideon called out to one of them.
“As of this morning,” the man responded. Gideon could see the awe in the young soldier’s eyes as he watched Gideon enter the keep. Apparently, several weeks of absence hadn’t diminished his reputation among the common soldiers.
Upon entering the keep’s audience chamber, the rent throne gave Gideon pause. He remembered the first time he had ever set foot in Castle Talon. Prince Herod had charged him from the throne’s dais, but Gideon had easily overpowered the smaller man. A speck of dried blood still marked the spot where Nevidal’s hilt had smashed Herod’s face during their duel. Gideon smirked. “A king should be a better fighter,” he told the broken throne.
Herod’s bedchamber was frigidly cold. Silk curtains still hung in the air, but cold wind blew in from outside. “Herod,” Gideon said after a guard announced his presence. “Good to see you’re still alive, my prince.”
One of the armed attendants in the room gathered several of the curtains together and tied them to the wall behind Herod’s bed. “I’m afraid I haven’t moved much since last we spoke,” the dying prince responded. Herod’s body had vastly deteriorated. Bed sores coated the undersides of his arms and his hair had been shaved in anticipation of it falling out.
“I bring grave news,” Gideon told him. He waved the attendants out of
the room and Herod nodded, sending them scurrying into the hallway.
“Are you here to tell me that Talonrend has been attacked and most of her citizens have fled?” Herod jested, coughing up a bit of phlegm in the process. “There is far little I can image that could be considered worse news.”
Gideon let his head hang low. “The refugees are dead.”
Thick silence filled every inch of the room. After a long moment, Herod wheezed and broke the silence, but did not speak.
“How many are left in the city?” Gideon finally asked.
Herod let another solemn moment pass before answering. “Just over a thousand Templars and guardsmen, maybe three thousand citizens, and only a few hundred skilled craftsmen and merchants. Many of the militia stayed, but they are farmers unaccustomed to life in Talonrend and away from their fields. Most of them now patrol the walls.”
“How long will the stores last?”
“They’ll last,” Herod said with a shred of confidence. “We were stocked to support well over ten thousand for nearly a year. If you don’t mind stale grains, you’ll have plenty of food.”
“We brought some of the refugees back.” Gideon explained. “But not nearly enough.”
“How many?”
“A hundred, give or take a dozen. Almost half of them are paladins from the Tower.”
“Finally, some good news,” Herod chuckled meekly. “Although if we are to rebuild, it is tradesmen, builders, and smiths we will need, not soldiers.”
Gideon nodded. “Has there been any news from the villages along the Clawflow? Have there been any goblin or orc sightings?”
“Orc?” Herod questioned, “I’ve not heard of orcs coming near Talonrend for decades.”
“We fought them on the road,” Gideon said. “Two different clans, by my estimation.”
The prince tried to speak but was beset by another bout of pained coughing. He convulsed and spat dark blood onto the sheets. One of the attendants rushed into the room and held a tankard of water to the prince’s lips.
The Goblin Wars Part Two: Death of a King Page 15