As the jungle began to thin, Gulor tightened the pack, keeping Magmi and Syonne centered, the rest forming a loose circle around them. Every creak in the wind, each soggy ruffle of leaves, escalated Kyrn’s beating heart. He watched intently as Gulor kept his axe across his chest, his deep brown eyes flickering through the trees. Kyrn tried to follow them, at first, but it seemed they were chasing every little noise in the winds of the storm.
Eventually, they fell through the edge of a jungle. With the trees at their backs, the winds hit them harder than they’d felt since the Sea Maiden drifted into the alcove. Kyrn’s hair tousled, and he raised his chin, letting the rain sting his face. As he did, his eyes met the spiraling, green clouds. They hung high, not as distant as they once were, spinning like a dwarven mining drill through the skies above. The mass sat high above the grasslands before them. All around it, the sagging rainclouds rushed through the night sky with the wind forcing them along.
The isolated, green clouds sat high, unmoved by the wind. Spotty flashes of lightning erupted through the black and green spirals, and the sky glowed with them.
Beneath the mass, Kyrn could see the temple. Had he not known what he was looking for, it’d have seemed nothing more than the deep silhouette of a patch of trees, stranded in the open fields.
The tall blades of grass slapped against their legs like whips urging them forward.
“Can you stop that?” Kyrn asked either of the wizards, referring to the dark magics that circled in the sky.
Nylah pulled his hair from his face, holding it back from the winds. “That answer has not yet been seen,” he said. “Though, with the stone, there is always a chance.”
Kyrn knew what cost these chances could come at.
Magmi pursed his lips, spewing a shrill whistle loud enough to dampen the howls of the wind. Shortly after, Skoval cried from above, circling his master before landing on his outstretched arm. The old wizard brought the bird in close, cupping Skoval from the loud gusts, and whispered through his brown feathers.
Skoval took flight.
Watching him soar, Magmi breathed deep. “What a fearless creature,” he said to any that listened. “Well,” he continued, looking around at his group of curious friends, “we cannot leave the little bird all alone, scouting on ahead.” He smiled.
Kyrn lifted the hilt of his glaive from the dirt. Walking passed Gulor, he took the lead.
***
The fields waved before them; however, they appeared calm and easy going. After only a short way through, Kyrn felt his boot catch on something soft and heavy, and he tripped face first into the tall grasses. He felt his hands on a cool, smooth surface and, when the moonlight peeked through the clouds, he saw that he’d fallen onto a lifeless orc, heavily scarred and bloodied from a long-ended battle.
Kyrn shot from the ground like a branded pig. “Orcs!” he shouted.
Gulor dropped low, his lower half blending into the blades of grass. He held his metal axe to his side, erect towards the sky, and he spun rapidly around. “From where, Kyrn?” he growled, not slowing in his search.
“At our feet,” Kyrn said. He’d not seen the panic Gulor had fallen into. He stood still, letting his eyes land on more and more bodies surrounding them.
Gulor stood slowly. “Master Kyrn,” he grumbled. “The battles have moved north, since the fall of the temple before us.” He rested his heavy hand upon Kyrn’s shoulder. “There’s nothing to worry about here.” He raised his eyes to the green vortex growing in the sky. “Not from the orcs,” he corrected.
“How many lay at our feet?” Kyrn whispered.
Chieftain Gulor let the winds speak for him, pushing Kyrn along through the grasslands, carefully watching their footing as they did.
***
Gulor pulled the group low when they came close enough to see the red and grey stone of the temple. It rose high above them, like the castle of Grimmrich. Kyrn studied the tactfully-carved pillars that surrounded the base of the structure, the balconies that rose, one above the other, up the face of the temple.
At the base, Kyrn saw a few goblins, some seated upon the red stone steps, others pacing at their base.
Gulor grunted. “Time to take back my father’s home,” he quietly growled. Before he could stand from the tall blades, he felt a small arm grab his forearm and hold him down. Kyrn glared at him with such intense passion, that Gulor feared for any that crossed the young half-elf. Gulor grinned, showing jagged teeth, a mixture of whites and yellows. The green light from the fervent twirling above them sparkled from the orc’s dark eyes. “Your sister,” Gulor growled. “I’ll find her. Keep pushing through, get the old ones where they need to be.”
Kyrn nodded. “Thank you, Gulor.”
The orc chieftain rose from the grass, like a large tree sprouting in an instant. He stretched his arm with a quick flick of his muscles and tossed his axe between his hands. “For Glume!” he shouted, “King of the West Lands!” Nothing overpowered his boisterous yells; not the clapping of the grass at their feet, the patting of the crying skies, not even the thunderous clamor of the vortex overhead.
Kyrn watched the shadowed goblins freeze in his sight, a charging giant from the bushes. As he rose, he released his emotions, let them flow free from his mind. Kyrn could feel them rush through his body, leaving his fingertips, and the veins of his glaive were replenished with their blue glow. His mind was free, and he could feel the power of the glaive fill his being. He understood the king’s glaive, as he bounded step after step behind Gulor. It was a give and take, an exchange of emotions.
Gulor struck first. Three goblins burst into fragments of green and red with one murderous sweep of his axe. The orc chieftain’s battle cries rang through the night, and he leaped up the sandstone steps of the temple.
One of the goblins managed to keep enough composure to swing his skimpy blade at the orc.
Gulor caught the blade bare-handed. Without slowing his stride, he raised the goblin, who’d not let go of his sword, and flung him behind him. A thin spout of blood shot through the air when Gulor released the blade from his grasp, but his hand had already found its home around the hilt of his axe.
The goblin flew over Kyrn, but not before he raised the glaive, gliding across the goblin’s underbelly. Kyrn stood at the orc chieftain’s back, fending off two or three goblins that ran through the open door of the temple, entirely unaware of the enraged orc that lay in wait.
Gulor quickly quieted the remaining goblins outside with less than four more swings, before he heard the high-pitched cry above him. He couldn’t entirely understand the guttural goblin tongue as the small, green creature leaped from an upper balcony, falling towards him with a blade in each hand. Though, it was eerily like his orcish language, broken and desecrated. He made out the sole word ‘death’ as the goblin fell, and with a humored humph, Gulor spun his axe.
The goblin never landed.
Mid-shriek, the falling creature was silenced, a scarcely-curved blade perfectly piercing its heart and pinning the goblin to the sandstone pillar. The lifeless goblin’s feet dangled just above Gulor’s head.
“By the braids of my beard!” Gulor grunted, teeth clenched in anger. He caught the golden-haired elf just in time to see him leap from the banister of the stairwell, seizing his sword mid-air from the goblin’s chest. He landed at his feet, and the goblin smacked against Gulor’s head and fell limp at his feet.
“Good work, my friends.” Brailen whipped the dark blood from his sword and sheathed it at his waist. He turned quickly and disappeared through the doorway of the temple.
When Kyrn followed quickly behind Brailen, Gulor was still tense with anger from his stolen kill.
The inside of the temple was busy: goblins paced back and forth, weaving in and out of rooms, this way and that.
Brailen made quick work of a few goblin guards, readying themselves to join in the fray outside.
“I’ve seen this before,” sputtered Biddledur. “In the Black R
ock Mountains. This is the Dark Lord’s temple now.”
“Not for long,” Gulor growled, shoving past the group. Again, he walked briskly into the mass of startled goblins. Even a few dwarves stood in line, commanding the lower ranking goblins.
“It’s unlike the Black Order to mass such an army,” Magmi said, pausing only to think, “of lowly creatures.” He stood at the door, watching Gulor cast goblins aside like they were nothing more than verminous rats. “Lord Daen truly defines the Order,” he continued. “He is on the run. We must stop him before he gathers even more power, even more allies.”
Kyrn didn’t hesitate, Abellia was somewhere here waiting for him. And, though it may not have been his immediate goal, it was his only true concern. He let the emotions again drift into the king’s glaive and followed in Gulor’s wake. Goblins that, by some utter godsend, managed to skirt around the orc chieftain’s battle-axe, stumbled into Kyrn’s dancing glaive.
Brailen kept close to Kyrn, deftly deflecting a few large crossbow bolts that descended from the upper levels. As he did, he watched Kyrn’s dance, twirling and spinning in a trail of magical blue lights.
Kyrn felt, in that moment, that he’d never truly experienced the king’s glaive before, that he’d never truly used it. He let it spin over the top of his hand, curving in the air before it landed in the next. It whirled around his back, and he felt the fear he’d let seep into the weapon crawl up his spine, as the glaive rolled horizontally across his lower-back. He caught it again with his right hand, gripped it with both, and dropped low, spinning on one heel.
Both goblins before him fell to the ground before they could gain their balance from the force of Gulor’s initial swing.
“Keep your eyes sharp!” Brailen announced. He ran past Kyrn, quickly climbing a bookshelf on the far-side wall. He used only one hand to keep his grip on the shelf, angling the flat side of his elven blade, crossbow bolts chinking off each time. He knew how long it took for the dwarves to reload their crossbows on the second level. He’d measured the time with the few he’d deflected out of Kyrn’s way.
After Brailen blocked both bolts, he flung himself over the banister.
The closest dwarf was met with a flash of the golden-haired elf’s boots, knocking him squarely in the jaw. As he tumbled back, his crossbow clattered against the sandstone floor, and he landed on his back. The last thing he saw was the elf’s blond hair flutter over his shoulders, as Brailen leaped over the fallen dwarf, holding his blade low to his side.
As Brailen sprinted for the second bowman, his blade slid silently over the fallen dwarf, and he was no more.
The second dwarf fumbled with his crossbow. He set it upon the ground, now, erratically trying to fit the next bolt. He looked down at his crossbow, up at the elf, back at the bow, up at the elvish blade.
Brailen leaped back over the railing as the second bowman fell to the ground. As he fell, a goblin had hopped the railing at his side, and fell with him in the air. It was no more than a ten-foot fall, but it was more than enough time for Brailen to behead the goblin, ridding him of his sneering grin. The golden-haired elf snatched the goblin’s rusty sword, holding it backwards in his off hand like a feeble dagger.
He stood atop a set of stairs. Kyrn and Gulor quickly ascended. These can’t be the Dark Ones, Brailen thought. He’d seen the Black Knight in King’s Roost, the draelor. This had been all too easy; goblins and deep-mountain dwarves. Standing behind another crossbowman, ready to fire down the stairs at the rest of Brailen’s party, the elf simply booted him in the back, plunging the dirtied dwarf down the stairs.
“Something is wrong,” Brailen said when his party safely reached the top of the stairs.
Gulor looked around, confused. “Seems we’ve done rather well,” he grunted. “I’ll check the chambers for the girl.”
Brailen was too late to stop him. It didn’t make any difference, though—the orc was enraged, only two goals on his mind: retake his father’s temple, kill. “Master Wylah,” he said, and Magmi the Great gave him a grave eye. “What is this? Why goblins?”
“Time,” Magmi whispered. “Only to buy more time.” He walked to the glass window at the top of the staircase and leaned into his palms on the frame. He heard the quiet call of Skoval overhead. He was relieved that his companion still lingered there, but the clouds circling above continued expanding in their green glow and muffled thunder. “We must move,” he hissed.
And they did. They climbed the stairs of the temple. Gulor kicked in doors, those which hadn’t opened with a quicker check of his broad shoulder. The flights of the temple were cold and quiet, no longer filled with the grunts of the hastened goblins and their filthy dwarven commanders. “She’s not here!” Gulor shouted like a crack of thunder, slamming shut the last unchecked door on the floor. “Nothing’s here!”
He walked to the end of the open floor and stood before a wide double-door. His arms dropped at his side, and the metal blades of his axe smashed into the floor with a quick clank.
“His father’s chamber,” Nylah whispered, watching the orc chieftain. “When he ruled the jungles of the West Lands.”
Gulor released a slight grunt and forced his way through the doors. He readied his axe tightly to his chest as they opened. The only thing which rushed to meet the infuriated orc was the blustering winds from the vortex brewing outside. His father’s chambers had been altered entirely. Across the room from him, beneath the windows looking over the eastern jungles, the fallen Glume’s throne had been replaced by a polished, black seat.
“Black rock,” Nylah gasped. “From the distant Vhanhulan Mountains. But how? He’s not been here nearly long enough.”
“His mirror,” came a small voice at their feet. Biddledur squeezed through and into the room. “The Dark Lord’s throne,” he continued, “from the Black Rock Mountains. It’s the same, I’m sure of it!” he said, his voice filled with pride. He wasn’t a fighter, not in the least, he’d known that. Anything he could do to help felt right.
“His mirror?” Nylah asked. “You don’t mean…”
Magmi nodded. The rest had seen it, first-hand in fact. Even the small halfling.
“Move!” Gulor shouted. He tugged at Kyrn and Brailen, hoping they’d follow him once more. A spiral staircase, nearly too thin for the wide-shouldered orc to fit through, spun through the roof of the fallen chieftain’s chambers; however, Gulor managed, and forced open a latch in the roof. For a moment, he stood in awe, blocking the others from ascending the stairs behind him. But, with a quick push from Kyrn, he crawled to his knees upon the roof of the temple.
The entire covering of the temple was flat. Glume had built it so, a strategic position in times of war, looking far to the grasslands of the east, and all along the coastline jungle to the west.
Kyrn stood at Gulor’s side. The rooftop was massive, slightly longer than the deck of the Sea Maiden and twice as wide. The sandstone roof was nearly empty. A few bare and calloused goblin feet stood firmly before them. Behind them, some sort of black rock spire had been built upon the rooftop. It was carved wide at the base, thinning in the middle, coming to a sharp point at its top. Around it, one on each of its four sides, a brazier was carved into the stone, set alight with deep-purple flames. They illuminated off the necromancer standing before it. His cloak flickered with the storm above. And his arms were slightly raised at his sides, palms lifted to the sky. A stream of green mist poured from his hands, connecting him with the vortex churning in the sky above them.
Kyrn’s mouth hung agape, seeing Abellia, chained to another smaller spire at his side. Despite her captivity, her lips widened into a smile when they caught eyes, and she could taste her salty tears rolling down over the curve of her top lip. He lurched forward, but Gulor extended his arm, and the young half-elf slammed into it like a stone wall.
“Leave her to me,” he growled. “End this.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Rise and Fall
Gulor lurched forward, sen
ding Kyrn staggering backwards. He smiled, seeing the goblins charge him. He admired the little creatures, fearless beasts. Gulor brought his axe sideways in front of his chest, felling two of the small green creatures. He felt one leap onto him, digging its small dagger into his back. With a short growl, he kicked the goblin left upon the ground, indenting its small chest as it fell to the ground. The orc chieftain let his axe fall to the ground with a sharp clank, and pulled the last goblin from his back. Like a twig, Gulor broke the goblin in two and dropped it to either side.
Another hooded figure walked towards the newly-come party. He lowered his hood and kept his distance from the raging orc. “At long last,” Alathain said. He knew his calm smile only infuriated the orc even more, so he left it on his face. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it, little one.”
Biddledur shook the chills from his body when the scarred man’s gaze fell upon him, and he subtly scooted himself behind Kyrn and Brailen.
“I’d hoped it wasn’t true,” Brailen shot at Alathain. “Fallen like your king.”
Alathain laughed. “So, the king of Castreeth finally dropped the façade,” he said. “Tell me, Brailen, doesn’t it feel freeing to rid yourself of that realm? More than two centuries held in its borders. For what? To serve a false king?”
Brailen whipped the dagger he’d stolen from the goblin earlier. It curved marvelously through the air. In an instant, it reached Alathain. And, even quicker, the dark-haired man flicked his robe to the side, unsheathed a sword and knocked it away. Brailen watched the dagger topple over the temple’s rooftop. “You speak of freedom,” Brailen spat. “Yet, you enslave yourself to the Dark Lords.”
Again, Alathain scoffed. “This will be a challenge I’ve longed for,” he said. And with his first lunge forward, his cloak fell to the wind, and his free hand found the second of his twin blades.
A Flutter In The Night (Kyrn's Legacy Book 1) Page 27