Blue Diamonds (Book One of The Blue Diamonds Saga)

by Murphy, R. E.

  "Nowww youuu dieee wizzzarrrd!" boomed Aga.

  "What are you doing?" Shomnath tried to call out, but his own wounds had finally taken their toll. Dragging his friends from the fight had sapped him of everything he had left, and he was slipping out of consciousness. Before everything went dark for the prince he heard the dragon scream one last, terrifying scream, and another flash of light sparkle as the dragon took another try at Aga's face with another stream of fire.

  The giant earth elemental shook off the second blast of flame as easily as it had with the first, but this time it didn't even look at the dragon, focusing hard on the wizard on the ground. Aga refused to be bothered by the winged fire beast, especially now that it finally caught its prey.

  Aga roared at the wizard, loud enough to bring down heaven itself. Now the monster’s eyes flared like two suns, beaming a bright spotlight down over the wizard which made him seem to glow, as if he were on a stage and this was all theatre.

  Baylor froze then, suddenly realizing that the elemental was speaking to him! He looked all about, hoping that he was wrong. But then Baylor looked down and realized just how right he was. Gone was his dark cloak, and a peculiar, silver robe replaced it. He knew straight away that it was the same robe the strange old man was wearing. Then Baylor raised his hands, and as sure as anything they weren't his. His own stubby dwarf fingers were replaced with pasty, slim, wrinkled ones. At that moment he knew that he’d become the old man. He didn’t know how, but he knew it was so.

  “No!” screamed Baylor.

  He began to flee, but the elemental stomped a foot with frightening speed, creating a quake that shook him to his knees. There was only one hope. Using his telepathic link, Baylor sent his dragon soaring high into the clouds, shooting up into the stratosphere and then backwards and down in a loop, rapidly gaining velocity all the while.

  Once again the dragon shifted into a blazing fireball, the same as it had when it bombed Berwyn, only this time it travelled through the sky with much more speed, and built up much more energy. A tail of black smoke clung to the air behind it, tracing its path as it completed the loop and zipped towards the stone giant. Beneath the speeding fireball treetops burst and lit like candles as the dragon made for the elemental's face.

  Oblivious to the pesky dragon, Aga leapt into the air, eager to finally stomp his revenge into the wizard who'd made a fool out of him. He was going to pound the wizard to the center of the earth. Aga's shadow cast over Baymar, or rather Baylor, and the air-bound giant eclipsed the sun.

  The eclipse was short lived as in the midst of Aga's leap the dragon collided with the elemental, causing a magnificent explosion of fire and stone. The super-charged dragon blasted into the elemental with the force of a hundred thousand cannon balls and the heat of all the hells. Aga’s head burst apart, raining boulders in every direction, and Aga’s body was enveloped in such intense dragon fire that it crystallized into a floating island of obsidian, but even so, it was not enough to stop the momentum built up by the elemental's jump.

  The dragon vaporized, and didn't get another chance to be recalled. It was defeated, and therefore sent back into its gemstone just before an island of hot, black glass and stone preceded to pummel down over its master and the diamond.

  The defeat of his dragon hit Baylor with such force that he nearly didn't have the wits to understand what was happening, and barely let out a scream before he was crushed.

  23) Victory

  King Shomnor galloped alongside Colonel Jacob on his silver mare, followed by over a thousand of Somerlund's soldiers. They pushed their horses hard through the woods, only to reach the battle well after the magnificent collision between Aga and the dragon. The scene that they found waiting in the smoldering aftermath left the king speechless. After the impact, the black cloud of obsidian fell to the earth and cracked open into five, towering peaks.

  The giant shards all leaned towards Somerlund, which only amplified their eerie feel. The new, small mountain range lined up in a crescent, so that from the highest tower in the city it looked as though Somerlund might have emerged from a giant, black egg. From a distance, King Shomnor thought it was beautiful, but the beauty was lost once he was face to face with the ugliness waiting at the foot of the glass spectacle.

  Beneath the shards, the forest opened up to an ashen wasteland. The trees that were left were reduced to smoldering stumps of cinder, leaking the thick grey smoke that hung in the air throughout the area. As the soldiers marched onward, every few seconds a slight breeze would clear enough of the smoke for them to see that the ground was littered with death. Once there, the soldiers drudged on slowly, with their weapons drawn in fear of what might still be looming in the smoke.

  Although instead of a dragon, all they encountered was the survivors from General Stark’s battalion. They were huddled against a great tree that had been cracked in half, some silent, some delusional with shock. There were only eight in the huddle. They were alive, but not a single one had escaped injury. The healthiest of these soldiers lost a hand, and he was using his good hand to assist his brothers.

  A flock of healers that came with the king's entourage swarmed over them, while Colonel Jacob sent a large contingent of his men to spread out and smite any lingering flames as well as search for any other survivors. Another group of scouts were soon sent, with great apprehension, to ride for Loyola and investigate the dwarves dwelling.

  In short time the search for life proved fruitless, so instead they began to round up the slain soldiers. It was the first step in the tedious task of burying them in a mass grave. The colonel didn’t want to bury the veterans so disgracefully, but it was on the king’s orders.

  “We can have a mass funeral later, if that pleases everyone,” announced the king.

  Under normal circumstances the fallen soldiers would receive proper funerals in the city amongst their respective families and church. But today the number of dead didn’t fall within the parameters of normal, and neither did the condition of the bodies. While the king respected that a funeral was a soldier’s right, he strongly felt that displaying their mutilated bodies would’ve dealt more damage than healing. Even a proper mass funeral would have to be planned much later in the future, when the grounds became more bearable. The king knew the smell of war, how it would not clear for weeks, and the sour stench of burning flesh and horsehide clung fast to the forest here, and it invaded the nostrils.

  The rescue work went on for hours, as King Shomnor, repulsed by the odor, remained at the edge of the site watching the colonel bark out commands. He had no desire to participate in the work, until an excited group of men caught his attention.

  They shuffled towards the king’s tent carrying a stretcher that was surrounded by healers busy at work. Their body language spoke volumes of the importance of their cargo. In between the hustling healers, the king caught a glint of light that reflected off the armor clad body lying on the stretcher and he became excited. It was a body in golden armor, and before anyone announced the discovery the king was already down from his saddle, briskly making his way to the stretcher.

  The king pushed aside three of the healers that were tending to the general with one rough shove, frantic to reach his side. Across the stretcher was another three healers trying to free Stark from his armor. Sir Williamdale’s armor looked much the same as it did when it was first discovered by Shomnath in the Evernight. Blood stained, battered, but gleaming beautifully.

  “What have you done to yourself this time Dugan?” said Shomnor.

  If the general felt the humor he didn’t, or couldn’t, show any sign of acknowledgement. At the moment the only movement from him was in his eyes, which glared at Shomnor. The king inspected his commander’s body and immediately noticed that his left arm, the only arm not covered by the magnificent armor, was missing from just beneath the shoulder. The healers had wrapped the wound as tight as they could, but the bandages were already soaked through with blood. Shomnor would not let his pain s
how. He swallowed hard and bent over to whisper in his old friend’s ear.

  “You will be celebrated, my friend," said the king. "My last friend.”

  Again, there was no response, but this time the general turned his head away, and simply shut his eyes.

  “You keep him alive,” growled the king. When he stepped back from the stretcher the healers went right back to work on the general like pidgins on crumbs. Colonel Jacob stood fast by the king.

  “What’s left to do?” asked the king.

  “Not much," admitted the colonel. Most of the survivors aren’t much better off than the general. The only thing we’ve confirmed from their rambling is that they were locked in battle with a demon.”

  “Interesting," said Shomnor, his arms spread out wide. "But where is this demon now? If it did all of this, where has it run off to?”

  “I don’t know your highness, and neither do any of the survivors. One soldier said the monster bested the battalion handily, and as it was about to finish them off it simply flew away."

  "Flew away?" said Shomnor.

  "Yes, and then there was an explosion, before a thunderous quake,” said colonel Jacob.

  Shomnor lifted a brow to the colonel, not satisfied with the answer. He wanted to hear that he was right about the dwarves.

  “Yes, yes, I already know about the explosion," smirked Shomnor. "Everyone from here to the giant’s kingdom heard the blasted explosion," he added.

  "Yes, your highness."

  "So how can they not know more than we?” Shomnor looked out at the carnage. “There must be someone who knows what went on here.”

  “I’ll continue to question the soldiers as they are healed, your highness,” Colonel Jacob offered.

  “That’s not good enough,” said Shomnor. “We’re wasting precious time. I don’t care about the soldiers, I just want the bloody diamond. After the bodies are buried I want every last man searching for the stone.”

  “With all due respect your highness, we should be heading back to defend the city.”

  “Due respect bids me your silent obedience, colonel,” said the king with finality as he pointed at the mounting pile of bodies. “I want whatever is capable of doing this, and I have a feeling that it might still be nearby.”

  “Yes, your highness.” It was all the colonel could say, before turning to give the new directive to his men.

  Then, as the colonel went on with his work, a small voice broke through the menagerie.

  “My king! My king!” called the voice.

  Shomnor scanned the area to find found Londo hurrying towards him, wearing an expression the king had learned to read well over the years. The expression said, I need to tell you something, and not only can't it wait, but I will most assuredly interrupt anything you might be doing.

  “What of Berwyn?” Shomnor asked, beating his loyal aid to the punch.

  “Nothing, sire. Nothing at all is left of the town,” said his personal guard. "It has been razed.

  Shomnor whispered a curse to the gods, but wasn’t emotionally devastated by the news. Berwyn wasn’t one of his moneymakers. No real taxes lost there.

  “And the dwarven stronghold?”

  “We haven’t gotten word from our scouts yet," admitted Londo. "But no good news is expected.”

  “Then why do you bother me?” snapped the king.

  “We found more survivors by the rubble, some of them badly injured.”

  “And?”

  “And, your highness,” Londo continued. “Your son is among them.”

  Londo didn’t wait for a reaction, he simply turned and lead the way. He walked with his chest out and his chin held high, happy to be the only bearer of good news on this horrid day.

  King Shomnor was forced to follow on foot. The horses were so freaked from the smell of burning flesh in the air, that they had to be tethered. This prompted eight royal guards to surround the king, positioning into a tight formation. They cocooned him with four men to his front and four to his rear, followed by sixteen more. The king didn’t care for the crowd, but the convoy was protocol in hostile environments, demon or no demon.

  During the stroll, the guards formed so tightly against him that if he stopped walking he would be whisked away at the mercy of his human bubble. The king’s only view was of the soldiers in front of him, leaving him clueless for much of the hike, but from looking up through the burnt and broken remaining Brownstone trees he could tell that they were nearing “the black forest.” It was the name that the soldiers gave to the giant shards of obsidian.

  The king decided it was an apt name, because the nearer to the dark, glass towers that they got, the more the shine faded from everyone’s armor, as if the obsidian towers were drinking light from the the sky. Even the jewels on his rings lost their luster here. When the guards finally stopped, they were covered in the eerie luminescence that was cast down from the tall shards. Although they were nearly black in shade, the hue given off was a dark, sickly green. He felt like they were walking into a strange, organic cathedral.

  Without a word, the soldiers spread apart their formation into two flanking rows beside the king, leaving him a wide path to a surprising view. Baymar was down on his knees several paces away. A smirk slashed across Shomnor’s mouth as he walked forward, searching for a witty remark for his old friend, but his smile vanished when he got close enough to see the four bodies lined up before the cleric.

  Shoulder to shoulder, Rolo, Kala, Pall, and Shomnath lay with their feet pointed away from Baymar, cast from neck to feet in iridescent cloth. They were bundled snuggly, with their hands crossed at their chests. It looked as though Baymar received aid from a giant spider.

  The king dropped to his knees beside Baymar.

  “I should have known his friends would get him into trouble," he said. "Now look at them. Will they live?”

  The cleric remained submerged in his meditation, and didn't respond.

  “Can you hear me Baymar?” said Shomnor.

  Again, no answer.

  “Well, if you can hear me, I don’t care if you can’t save the others," Shomnor said. "I want you to stop wasting your power on them, and just make sure my son is okay. Please. He is the prince, after all. Do you hear me Baymar?”

  If Baymar was listening, he didn't acknowledge it.

  “All these years, and you still refuse to speak to me?” Shomnor said, and then he rose to his feet and glared down at Baymar.

  “She’s dead!" screamed Shomnor. "You lost a sister! Well I lost my wife! She was my everything! Do you hear me?”

  Again, silence.

  When the king felt the eyes of the colonel and his men, he regained his composure the best he could, and then stomped away. The king’s guard scrambled ridiculously after him, trying to catch up and get into proper formation.

  “Londo,” the king called back, just before starting the trek back to his tent.

  "Yes, your highness?" said Londo.

  “Stay here, and wait on Lord Baymar."

  "Lord Baymar?" said Londo.

  "Yes. Get my brother-in-law anything he needs,” said the king.

  24) Celebration

  “He’s awake, your highness.”

  Of all the words Shomnath expected to hear when he got to heaven, those were not at the top of the list.

  To begin with, in his heaven he assumed there wouldn’t be kings, servants, or any type of hierarchy for that matter. Just a lot of free spirits, with nothing better to do than enjoy a good laugh about how ridiculously serious everyone had taken their lives, when all the while they should have been busy cherishing their time with one another.

  “Good. Just in time to enjoy the victory.”

  Now he was absolutely sure this wasn’t heaven. He didn’t think the people in charge of running the establishment would admit his father. He thought he heard the word victory, and then pondered whether this might actually be a dream.

  “A most excellent victory indeed, my king.” No. That kind o
f ass kissing only happened in his reality.

  Shomnath opened his eyes, but stayed still, staring at the intricate folds in the red and gold curtains hanging across the room. The curtains were cracked open, letting in just enough light to make his head pound. He recognized the window immediately, as it was his. All of what had transpired in the forest ended in haze. One moment Aga was about to stomp down on Baymar, and then the next moment he was back in the luxurious comfort of his bedroom. I’d rather be dead, he thought.

  He did his best to ignore the two shadowy figures at the foot of his bed. Shomnath recognized one of the voices. It was his father. His voice was tuned specifically for pulling the nerves running down the prince’s back, regardless of the words being spoken.

  Even from the corner of his eye, he knew that the ridiculously shiny, plush attired person next to the king could only be Archbishop Alexander, or the royal jester as Shomnath liked to call him. It wasn’t because he felt Alexander’s job was to entertain the king, but rather because he always dressed like a royal clown. The costumes are part of what gave Shomnath a bad taste for religion early in his life, until he was traveled enough to see that not all religious leaders paraded around looking like porcelain peacocks. Still, he couldn't understand why appearance would be so important to a god. He finally concluded that the costumes were probably a matter of Alexander’s own issues, rather than anything else.

  “Where are my friends?” Shomnath said, trying hard not to face his father.

  It had been this way between he and his father for years, since Shomnath turned twelve, when the king first tried to force Shomnath into taking over the throne. His father was fixated on the idea of retiring from his duties, but Shomnath was adamant against the idea, and the argument became heated.

  Shomnath could match his father’s temper with his tongue, and did just that, mouthing off until the king struck him down hard with the butt of his scepter. His mother wouldn't stand for it and rushed to her boy’s defense, but the king repeated the same blow to her, striking her on her temple and sending her down in a heap. The queen went down at a bad angle, violently cracking her forehead against the steps to the throne, and she died then and there.