Blue Diamonds (Book One of The Blue Diamonds Saga)

by Murphy, R. E.

  “Yer the one looking like a scared pup to me,” laughed Baylor. "There's no other way out, if that's what yer looking for."

  Baylor casually strode into the room, confident as a king in his castle. Burt was watching a nightmare unfold before his very eyes. He’d warned Jevon of his dislike of the taciturn stranger, bearing the self-proclaimed title alchemist without a single reference. Jevon had waved Burt off, all too trusting of anyone who wanted to be a part of his new clan. When Baylor halted the deeper tunneling operations on only his second day Burt screamed fraud, but Jevon took it as a blessing to have a professional on board, once again dismissing his brother’s feelings as paranoia. Now Burt understood that his brother was probably being influenced by some dark powers.

  “Jevon knows what yer up to,” claimed Burt.

  After living a life full of near death situations, Burt was quite the keen old dwarf. Although the scales seemed tipped outrageously against him, he knew the value of bluffing to the very end. He’d been saved by a bluff before, and hoped he could pull it off here. The lie obviously worked to some degree because Baylor winced in frustration. The problem was, that even if Burt slipped past Baylor what then? He still needed to climb down the mountain.

  “So I was followed from Somerlund,” hissed Baylor, as if confirming his own suspicions. “It doesn’t matter, everyone in me way'll just have to die. An ye’ll be first!”

  Baylor raised his dagger, grinning as he advanced. Of course this was exactly the reaction Burt hoped for and braced for the attack. He raised his pick hammer up, though it was only for show. It was heavy and he was old, and that served as a bad combination against the younger dwarf with a blade. Baylor inched toward Burt, who was backed against the wall beneath the smiling portrait of Ambrosia.

  When Baylor was within reach to make a stab for Burt, the wise old dwarf faked running to his left, extending a step, before shifting his weight in order to bounce in the opposite direction. The crossover feint worked perfectly as his assailant lunged toward the juke, missing wide and slicing hard into the wall with his dagger, creating a burst of sparks. This bought Burt the second he needed to flee in the opposite direction and make a run for the door.

  The old dwarf snickered as he made a break for it, fully willing to crash and tumble all the way down to Fort Hammerheart's doorstep if he had to. He needed to get word to Jevon, even if it was in the form of his battered, lifeless body. Yet just as Burt reached the ledge and was about to leap his entire body was overcome by a sharp, excruciating pain. He couldn’t even scream as he watched his last breath leave his lips in a thin puff of smoke, just before everything around him went black.

  In the room Baylor was smiling. His dagger was on the floor, which was mostly a decoy. The real weapon shimmered upon his left fist, which he’d kept under his cloak the whole time. The rather large silver ring that fit three of Baylor's fingers was the magical ring Frostbern, recently relieved from Baylor’s previous master, Horace. The trinket was cherished above all the toys that the Archmage of Somerlund possessed, and poetically became the very one that slew him. Now Frostbern's latest victim, Burt Hammerheart stood a frozen sculpture near the top of Loyola to be battered by blizzards for all time.

  Baylor smiled, but his feeling of conquest was short lived. His smile quickly morphed into a loathing cringe. The gravity of what Burt said snapped his mind back into reality. He knew that he’d reached the end of his act.

  “They know,” he thought aloud, legs almost buckling under the brevity of the situation. He strolled over to one of the plush couches and flopped down on it as though he hadn’t rested in months. He found no comfort there. This can’t be happening, I’ve come such a long way, he thought.

  Only weeks prior he was slaving away as the unmentioned, and unappreciated steward to the Archmage. He grew to despise the wretched man, who claimed all glory in every innovative find that they worked on together.

  It was Baylor, Horace's unknown dwarf prodigy, who should have been accredited countless times. It was he who led the research and dissection of Sir Williamdale’s enchanted armor. It was also he who’d unearthed Ambrosia's hideaway atop Loyola, after many sleepless nights sifting through a mountain of Ambrosia’s notes.

  Time after time Horace curbed him from receiving his rightfully earned credit. After all his work, he was the Archmage, and Baylor was nothing but his lowly steward. What Horace didn't know, was that his stingy actions were planting seeds of bitterness and disgust within his servant, which blossomed into healthy stalks of resentment and hatred, inevitably bearing a harvest of revenge.

  Once, Baylor had dreamed of becoming Somerlund’s Archmage. Those dreams faded away, as repulsion for everything Horace represented quickly molested his view on the position. The title had suddenly become a blazing hypocrisy to him, having no true mission but to impress the king and fuel one’s own pride. So for his last years as the invisible apprentice he’d been working under an ulterior motive with a new dream, to obtain the power he needed to bring Horace, along with all of Somerlund if need be, to its sanctimonious knees. He would take the respect that was due to him, no matter who got in his way.

  When he first read the scroll the king's braggart son discovered, he saw the manifestation of his dream. Although he was quite a gifted sorcerer in his own right, the ability to summon a dragon would make him virtually unstoppable. If only he was able to break the mystery of what happened to the diamonds on that fateful night in the Evernight forest.

  Then, after hundreds of pages of journal after journal, he discovered codes, carefully scattered throughout Ambrosia's archives. Although most of the code proved unsolvable, he was eventually able to cipher a small portion that turned out to be coordinates on a map. The coordinates pointed him to Loyola. He rejoiced at his find, but instead of charging immediately to investigate he once again made the mistake of discussing it with his master. Why he revealed this monumental discovery to the man he loathed so lividly he would never know. It was probably a subliminal attempt to give his once idolized teacher a second chance at becoming what Baylor really needed, a mentor and a father figure. Unknowingly, Horace ultimately failed to grasp his second chance.

  Instead of congratulating his assistant, a delighted Horace swiftly announced to the king that the blue diamond mystery had been solved. He, the great Horace, through countless hours of hard work, had unearthed the possible location of Ambrosia's fabled diamonds.

  This proved the last straw, driving Baylor mad like a dog that had been beaten by its master one too many times. That same night, Baylor waited for Horace to return to his laboratory, murdered him, and sacked all the information pertaining to the stones. He was surprised to find that not only was he able to take a life without hesitation, but that he took great pleasure in the kill. It brought him to a state of euphoria he’d never felt before. The feeling was only amplified by how easily he’d gotten away with the crime. For the first time in his life he felt powerful.

  Then, when he first opened the black doors atop the mountain, he saw something that brought him even higher than killing Horace. Lying in the center of the marble floored room was one of the blue diamonds he dreamt so often about. The only thing that would’ve been better was to have found all four of the stones, but this didn’t matter. For the first time it was his find, his discovery, and he intended to take full credit for it in grand fashion. He was going to show Somerlund what real power was, and no one was going to take him for granted ever again.

  “Now everything has changed,” he spat and quivered in anger, cursing the day he’d forgotten one major detail. The book Spirit Stones held the knowledge that he needed in order to control a demon spirit once summoned from its crystal cage. The tome held instructions on how to forge soul gems into the steel of a weapon, adding another level of control to the wielder.

  If summoned directly from the stone these creatures were extremely difficult to command for long periods, while even for short periods command would be volatile at best. If only
Jevon’s pest of a son had made it back by now, he would have been able to forge his weapon and leave the miserable mountain along with the wretched Hammerheart clan. A storm of paranoid thoughts flooded into his mind as he clutched at his chest, tightly gripping the diamond that hung from a leather cord under his shirt.

  “There be no other way,” he decided.

  He exhaled in defeat, staring emotionless at the mosaic wall before him. It was a scene depicting a gallant knight, locked in the heat of battle with a fearsome dragon. The surrounding forest in the scene was being laid to waste by dragon flame, colored with ruby and amber, while the lone knight held up a great shield in a daring defense.

  Baylor knew the tale. The exact same mural, minus the gemstones, was displayed on a tapestry hanging in the castle ballroom back in Somerlund. It was the story of the great General, Sir Williamdale Bryon, slaying a dragon for the first time in an amazing show of bravery, but Baylor saw something altogether different. Instead of a brave hero he saw a knight full of fear, begging for his life. Baylor also saw conquest. A dragon’s conquest. His dragon’s conquest.

  Baylor pulled the necklace from his shirt and held the diamond up, dangling the stone in the torchlight. Blue dots of reflected light danced over his face as he peered into the diamond, as if looking for his pet. He saw nothing but hundreds of tables of fruit and chalices of wine. He lowered the gem and rose from his seat, then slowly walked out the door. Once the chill smacked his cheeks he immediately fell to his knees next to the frozen Burt. There was no time to wait for the book, even if Jevon really did send his son to retrieve it. Then a second thought twisted his spine. What if he sent that son of his to send warning to the king? That meant he had even less time than he thought. He gripped the diamond tight now, closing his eyes and sucking in rapid, shallow breaths of cold air.

  “I summon ye dragon, from the depths of the abyss, to come and do me bidding,” said Baylor.

  The dwarf was now locked in a teeth-grinding smile, clutching the diamond with both his hands above his head. Baylor’s entire body was lit up in a bright crimson hue, the strongest point of light resonating from his cupped hands. Then Baylor's entire body tightened, and the top of the mountain quaked in a brilliant explosion of fire.

  The great explosion lit the blizzard directly above the glowing dwarf into a million dancing fireflies, and blasted away the mountain’s apex to reveal Ambrosia’s chamber to be the true peak. Yet unlike an ordinary explosion, this one expanded, and then held its mass intact for several moments before sprouting wings, a tail, and a serpentine neck. From afar it seemed as though the mountain had given birth to a giant bird of fire.

  Then, after circling the summit several times, the massive, winged fireball rolled down the great mountain with frightening speed, only to vanish moments before reaching the bottom. Baylor peered over the ledge and stared in awe.

  8) Ambrosia

  Ignore the pain.

  Baymar clung to the thought, in hopes that his body might obey. The makeshift bandages he wrapped over gashes in his forearms and chest were clouded red with blood. They defeated the griffins, but the fight left serious injuries in need of tending that only he could provide. It was the purpose he was brought along, yet he never imagined his services would be needed so early in the journey, or that it would be his fault.

  Shomnath and Pall kept Rolo and Kala warm with blankets, while applying pressure their wounds with makeshift bandages as the cleric rummaged through his satchel. Rolo’s face and upper body was caked in dry blood, but between the few spots that weren’t covered his skin had gone pale white. Baymar knew he had little time left to save him. The giant’s eyes were rolled back and his skin felt cool to the touch.

  Pall couldn’t pull his eyes from Kala, who hadn’t moved since he carried her from the beach and into the shade of the Evernight. After laying her down, it took the three of them to drag Rolo to her side. She had been fully unconscious, and that was twenty minutes ago.

  “Please don’t let them die,” pleaded Shomnath.

  The prince was on his knees cradling Rolo’s head. This was the most vulnerable the prince had ever seen the giant, and until today he honestly thought the man was unstoppable. He knew they would all have to face their mortality one day, but he took solace in one core belief. Shomnath always believed he, out of all his friends, would be the first to die. It was only logical, considering he always took the biggest risks and was the first to fight.

  In a way the thought was just an emotional safety net, allowing him to be brave, although most times his bravery bordered recklessness. But now, staring down at his friend he could hardly call on that same courage. The fight with the griffins didn’t fill him with glee the way a close getaway usually did, with the lot of them running away into the sunset, laughing at the new stories they gained. This time, the adrenaline rush didn’t mask the effects of his wounds. The griffins slashed his unarmored arm several times, and the cuts burned. It was excruciating, and Rolo’s condition seemed to amplify the pain. For the first time in many years, the prince of Somerlund prayed to whatever god might be listening.

  “Quiet,” Baymar said through clenched teeth, half ordering and half begging as his hand emerged from his bag. He was holding a long glass flask that was taller than the bag by twice. Without word, he dropped to his knees and waved the corked top at Shomnath, too weak to open it himself. On cue, Shomnath snatched the cork with such gusto it nearly whipped the flask from Baymar’s hands. In the background, Kala began to cough.

  “She’s coming around,” announced Pall.

  Baymar nodded in response. He knew from a brief inspection earlier that she wasn't as bad off as Rolo. His main concern for her was whether her mind would come out unscathed after being whipped unconscious so violently. No magic he knew could unscramble a brain. A brain, regardless of race, was just too complicated of an organ. Kala's awakening brought a bit of relief to Shomnath, but it quickly faded when he saw the concerned look on Baymar’s face.

  Beads of sweat appeared across the cleric's brow from heavy concentration as he pushed on through his own anguish. He poured the blue liquid from the flask over Rolo’s face and wounds while whispering under his breath. Shomnath didn't recognize the language behind the incantation, but he didn’t care. He was hypnotized by the way the liquid magically washed away all the blood, along with the cuts it flowed from.

  “You saved him,” said the prince.

  “No, not yet. Surface wounds are the easiest,” answered Baymar. He paused from his chant and placed the flask to the side. “I still have to address the blood loss,” he said with much less confidence, which Shomnath sharply detected.

  The cleric continued with his spell, only now he squeezed his eyes shut tightly and placed both palms onto Rolo’s chest. After several moments and so faint that Shomnath almost didn’t catch it, the same blue light that the cleric brought forth in Aga’s healing emitted from somewhere within the giant’s ribcage. The light pulsed very slowly, intensifying only slightly with each beat. Shomnath grew nervous and impatient, curious as to why the cleric didn’t just conjure out the light with a clap like earlier. Now it came slow and tedious, as though it drew every ounce of will from the old man.

  Just as Shomnath began to word his frustration, the light suddenly intensified. His eyes widened as Rolo’s chest went transparent, bearing his organs as if his skin and ribcage had turned to glass. The light of life was pulsing with the giant's heart, intensifying in light as well as reaching out from the main arteries a little more with each contraction, until it eventually ran down his hands and legs.

  With each beat, the sound of the pulsing also grew, until the forest around them was filled with the murmur of Rolo’s heart. This went on for a short while, constantly shifting tempos from a weak and choppy flutter to a loud, pounding fury. Although the big man’s mouth never moved, Shomnath thought he heard Rolo scream.

  Then the healing light slowly faded away, along with the sound of the beating, and Baymar
slumped back against a tree. Thoroughly fatigued, he poured a portion of what was left of the bottle over his head and wounds, before passing it to the prince urging him to do the same. Baymar blacked out into sleep just then, still sitting up against the tree. Shomnath looked at Pall, who returned his concerned gaze, but remained silent.

  Nearly an hour passed before Baymar dreamily opened his eyes. As his wits came back to him he noticed Kala now fully awake sitting across from him. She’d awoken in time to witness the end of his session with Rolo. She sat there holding her ribs, unable to find the strength to ask what she desperately needed to know. She glanced over to the side, leading Baymar’s eyes to Rolo. The giant was still lying down, only now he was clean and his head was propped on a pillow of her bundled cloak.

  “He will live,” whispered Baymar. The young Elvin girl's eyes filled with tears. Pall held her and gently guided her back down to rest by the fire.

  “Ye did good, wizard,” said Pall.

  “Cleric,” Rolo weakly grumbled, although without stirring, surprising them all. "He's a cleric now," the giant added, bringing them to a hearty, painful laugh.

  "Well," Baymar said. "It would appear that I've been called out of retirement, so wizard, or cleric, both are appropriate."

  "Idiot'll be appropriate, if ye wear that griffin feather hat again," said Pall, and they all broke into another round of painful laughter.

  On the beach, just a short distance from the tree line, Shomnath heard the laughter and whispered his thanks to the gods. Though not particularly religious he was the first person to admit his good luck in life had to be more than mere coincidence.

  He had been standing there watching Aga, once more reduced to a lonely hill by the shore. Only this time, the elemental didn’t pull its newly healed leg in like the other three. It was comical to see the single limb extending outward, and he could imagine someone mistaking it for a beached whale from a distance. That someone would get the surprise of their life if they attempted to salvage some of the blubber. The thought brought on a chuckle. He had to smile at how hasty he was to rush into the strange cave. He turned back to the wood grinning like a child fresh out of mischief.