Khalid turned to lead them to the Alvar captain. “I am glad that you are staying to help out,” Khalid said. “Though all of the warriors here are hardy and skilled, we may need more than just swords and a few druids.”
Farouk chuckled, turning his gaze to the top of Tel Drakkar’s main tower. There stood Jodocus, he saw, staring off to the east. The boy turned briefly and waved, turning back again when Farouk returned his greeting.
“What is Jodocus up to?” Farouk asked.
Khalid grunted. “Who knows?” he said. “That boy is always up to something. I’ve lost track. I will never understand you druids.”
“Khalid,” Allora said. “Is Aeli here?”
Khalid nodded. “She is inside, among the peasants,” he said. “She will remain with them and act as a healer. She has trained them all in simple healing techniques using herbs and whatever other odd things her mother taught her.”
Allora smiled warmly, yet accusingly. “Khalid,” she said. “You shouldn’t scoff at herbal healing. Not everyone can use magic. I admire her skills as a healer. It is what makes her such a great druid.”
“I agree,” Farouk said. “And there is nothing wrong with herbs at all.”
Khalid chuckled again, knowing of Farouk’s fairly recent love of select herbs. “No, no,” he said. “Not at all, I suppose. Whatever makes you happy.”
Allora’s brow furrowed as she looked to Farouk for an explanation. His silence told her she wouldn’t get one.
“In any case,” Farouk said, changing the subject. “I have seen her do battle. She’s not so timid in the ways of killing. She is a druid, after all, and always has been. She would have no problem helping to maintain the balance. Besides, nothing we will be facing is really alive.”
“True,” Khalid replied. “Unfortunately, they are not really dead, either.”
As they reached the south side of the complex, the trio saw Tenegal and his troops standing attentively. They faced the tree line just to the south, with Tenegal standing in front of his line. The Alvar captain bowed to Allora as the three of them circled the formation.
“Lady Allora,” Tenegal said. “I hope you will remain a safe distance from the battle.”
“I will take part in whatever way I am able,” she replied. “But I thank you for your concern.”
Tenegal humbly bowed his head, turning his attention back to the tree line.
“I do not think it is necessary to stand in formation just yet,” Khalid noted. “It is still several hours before nightfall.”
“We must remain vigilant,” the captain replied. “We have no way of knowing when they will decide to descend upon us. Not all of their numbers are sensitive to light, as you yourself have said, Khalid.”
The priest nodded in agreement. The captain was right. Khalid and his priests had fought the Enkhatar in Argan during daylight hours. They were, apparently, not affected by the sun.
Suddenly, from out of the trees, a shadow appeared. The soldiers went for their weapons, but immediately relaxed when the moorcat’s familiar face poked through the mist. He casually walked up to the group, sniffing the air around him. “I smell the dead,” he said. “But they are still far away. The wind is blowing their stench this way, and that makes me angry. The dead stink.”
Khalid chuckled, shaking his head. “You gave us quite a scare,” he said. “Things are very tense around here.”
“I’m sorry,” the moorcat replied. “But you will be happy to know that the rangers are in place all around the forest. I smelled Adder and Jhayla, even through the stench.”
“Ah, yes,” Khalid sighed. “I bet she smells wonderful.”
Farouk chuckled, patting Khalid on the shoulder. The priest chuckled as well, seeing a crooked smile spread across Tenegal’s normally stoic face.
“Come then,” Khalid said. “I suppose we should begin assembling the rest of our men. Allora, you will find Aeli inside the tower. She could probably use some assistance in gathering supplies for healing.”
Allora smiled. “It would be my pleasure, Khalid.”
Khalid turned, pulling Farouk along with him. “I wanted to wait until we were alone to speak to you,” he whispered.
“What is it, my friend?”
Khalid looked around to make sure no one was listening. “I think that Jodocus and the moorcat are hiding something.”
“Why?” Farouk grunted.
“Jodocus keeps looking toward the mines, even disappeared for a while. And the moorcat seems confident that the ranger’s weapons will be effective against the wights.”
Farouk nodded in understanding. “I see,” he said. “Perhaps there is some truth to that.”
Khalid stopped, looking at Farouk with an accusing stare. “Do you remember when we were younger?” he asked. “And I caught you trying to steal my dagger?”
Farouk smiled. “Yes, and I remember how you held me up with one hand while you searched my djembe.”
“Do you know why I did that?”
Farouk was silent.
“Because I knew you were lying,” Khalid said. “I know when you’re not telling me the truth, even if you are not really lying.”
Farouk lowered his head, sighing. “You are right,” he said. “But the two of them are not keeping anything from just you. It is a sensitive matter that may have a negative effect on Aeli and Allora.”
Khalid folded his arms over his chest, glaring at Farouk the same way he did forty years before.
“Tyrus the Blackhearted has returned,” Farouk said.
Khalid’s eyes immediately widened, and his hands clapped against the sides of his own face. It was almost comical. “What!?” he exclaimed.
“Relax, Khalid,” Farouk said calmly. “He has been returned by the Powers. He no longer serves the Lifegiver. He is now a servant of the Keeper.”
Khalid, still shaking his head, stammered repeatedly.
“I learned many things about him through communion with the captured defilers,” Farouk explained. “There are things you do not know; when and where he was born, and what his purpose was. He is here to atone for his past, just as we have.”
Khalid softened, nodding his head slowly. He could not deny that he, himself, had committed evil deeds while in the Lifegiver’s service. But Tyrus was a powerful sorcerer; pure evil and darkness. How could he atone for such things, no matter how much good he did?
“Please explain all of these things to me, Farouk,” he said.
“Very well. I am sure we have plenty of time.”
Chapter Fourteen
The rain had come in full force over the desert. The sky had split open to reveal the amber clouds that roiled with the fury of a massive storm, throwing lightning from its depths and issuing deafening claps of thunder. The entire assembled army had been surprised at the unusual occurrence, and even Hamal had stared in wonder at the falling rain. But, thankfully, the storm had stopped an approaching wall of blowing sand that threatened to blast the men with its own fury.
Eamon, not the least concerned with the storm, had wandered to the south of the fortress. He chose to come here in hopes of gaining an hour or so in isolation. With the constant presence of soldiers, magic users, and fellow kings, his tolerance had grown thin, and his desperate need to meditate had overwhelmed him.
He needed to get away.
Traegus had recommended it. Despite the storm, the wizard did not appear to be concerned. It was almost as if he knew the storm had come for a purpose, and that purpose was to protect them. There had been no outward signs that Traegus had summoned it, but Eamon had the feeling that the wizard knew who did.
Farouk, perhaps?
The king ignored any further questions in his mind as he plodded along the wet sand. He was weary, burdened, and longed to be home. Despite this, he stumbled on. He had found the edge of a shallow canyon nearby, just out of sight of the fortress, and continued his trek across the slippery sand. The ground split here, with one wide section of rock remaining level w
ith the surrounding area, and one sloping gently downward toward the north. He took the slope, hoping to shield himself from sight altogether, and walked down to its level surface.
Though the cliff wall directly behind him was steep, the drop off before him was sloping and rocky. It was nearly thirty feet down to the next ledge, with sparse vegetation scattered among the boulders that were imbedded in the sand. The canyon below was dark, but Eamon knew the terrain there was rough and not traversable. If this canyon stood between the fortress and the Great Pyramid, there would be no way to get around it. Thankfully, it was located southward.
Even as the heavy rain pelted soaked him, Eamon stood motionless. The feeling of solitude was comforting to him, and the sound of the rain brought memories of home. He crouched, closing his eyes to block out his surroundings. He imagined being home; hiding in the weeds during a hunt, the rain pelting him. He pictured the greenery of the forest, the smell of the trees, and the feel of the soft forest soil underneath his boots.
He missed that feeling.
He longed for the days of hunting the forest with Brynn and Dolram. He missed the way they joked, fooled around, and came home empty-handed so many times. He smiled, knowing that it was the time itself, and not the outcome, that was important. Though Brynn was still around, without Dolram and the freedom to be his old self, it just wasn’t the same.
Even in his younger years, the days spent under Garret’s tutelage were times of happiness. His frequent training sessions under his mentor meant everything to him. Having not had a father of his own, he had always seen Garret as a surrogate. Because of this, Eamon paid attention; doing everything he possibly could to make Garret proud of him.
But those days were gone.
He was no longer Prince Eamon; the carefree heir to the throne. He was Eamon, the Dragon King of Eirenoch. He was the Onyx Dragon.
Onyx Dragon.
Eamon flinched as the words crossed his mind. Had someone said them? Had he said them out loud and not realized it?
As he crouched in silence, willing away the sound of the rain, a slow chill went up his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and his breath suddenly became shallow.
Something was behind him.
He slowly rose, reaching behind him to draw the Serpent’s Tongue from its scabbard. He gripped the sword tightly, turning to face the cliff.
There stood darkness incarnate.
The dark figure was motionless. It was impossibly tall, cloaked in billowing black shadow, and remained hidden underneath its dark cowl. Eamon’s heart pounded as he beheld the beast. He raised his sword, standing defiantly in the face of death.
“Show yourself,” he said.
The figure raised its clawed hands to its cowl. It slowly slid the concealing garment back, revealing its ghastly crimson face, and matted black hair. Its eyes burned with the fires of hell; featureless and flaming. Yet Eamon knew they were trained upon him. As the king tightened his grip on the Serpent’s Tongue, a single word crossed his mind.
Demon.
“Greetings King Eamon,” the demon said, its voice a frightening chorus of whispers. “It is my pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Who are you?” Eamon demanded.
The demon grinned, exposing its sharp, yellow teeth. “That is not important,” it replied. “What is important is that you make your peace with the Lifegiver.”
“I will make my peace with the Lifegiver when I send him back to Hell.”
“Such foolishness,” the demon hissed; its eyes narrowing. “There is no Hell. There is only darkness and despair.”
The demon reached inside its cloak, pulling a dark blade from a hidden scabbard. The sword was brutal in appearance; jagged, black, and cloaked in smoky darkness. Eamon eyed it, feeling the Serpent’s Tongue vibrate as it was revealed.
“Now,” the demon spoke again. “Face darkness and despair for yourself.”
The demon shot forward, thrusting its blade in front of it. The Serpent’s Tongue knocked the blade away with a sparking clank as Eamon dodged. He struck downward at the demon’s shoulder, but its dark blade seemed to materialize there instantly; blocking the attack.
The demon backed away, chuckling menacingly. “You’re very quick,” it said.
Eamon struck again, chopping downward and then slicing left and right. The demon’s blade blocked all three attacks, and danced in the air in a spinning attack. Eamon parried, backing away as the demon charged forward. He ended in a scorpion stance, his blade above his head and pointed toward his enemy.
“Your technique is familiar,” the demon said. “Who was your master?”
“I have no master,” Eamon grunted. “Unlike you.”
The demon charged again, furiously slashing from side to side. Eamon skillfully blocked the attacks, sending his fist toward the demon’s face in a brutal punch. He felt the pain of the impact as his knuckles smashed into the demon’s mouth, and backed away. It was almost like punching stone. The demon, unfazed, continued its barrage, alternating between upward and downward strikes.
Eamon struggled to block, barely raising the Serpent’s Tongue just in time to clash against the demon’s dark blade. Then, a final strike disarmed him, followed by a furious kick to his midsection. Eamon was sent back in pain, his eyes following the arc of his sword as it tumbled over the edge of the cliff. His foot caught the edge as well, and he felt himself falling.
He landed roughly on the embedded stones, knocking them from their sandy sheaths as he tumbled down into the canyon. He bounced roughly on the way down; the sharp stones cutting his exposed flesh. He willed his armor to cover him fully, and it absorbed most of the shock. But now, he was face down against the steep slope, digging his fingers into the loose surface to avoid sliding down to the bottom.
When he had gotten a grip on the rocks and stopped his descent, he looked up to the edge. The demon stood there, glaring down at him with its fiery eyes. He glanced around, searching for his blade, finding it stuck in the sand near a small ledge. He inched toward it, keeping his eyes on the demon’s smirking face.
“Come back, Eamon!” the demon taunted him. “We are not finished.”
The king ignored him, reaching out to retrieve his blade. He sheathed it, and began to climb upward. He rarely got good purchase, and slid frequently in his ascent. All the while, the demon stood there mocking him; challenging him to finish the fight.
And then the demon’s chest exploded as a gleaming arrow burst through it. Eamon stopped as the demon howled with pain and rage, cursing the storming sky. Through the heavy rains, Eamon saw the demon turn and disappear, and the sounds of clanking swords followed.
Garret’s arrow had struck a devastating blow to Akharu. The assassin bore down on the demon, using his new gift to glide down from the higher cliff. His blade clashed with the demon’s as he landed, and he went into a frenzied barrage of lightning quick strikes that caught the demon off guard.
Garret raged as he attacked, picturing the demon killing Eamon if he did not end its existence now. Akharu must be destroyed, he knew, or Eirenoch would be kingless.
“Once again you spoil my plans, Garret,” Akharu hissed. “It’s time for you to die for good.”
Garret ignored him, spinning in the air as he faced his blade toward the demon. At the last second, he turned his blade, slashing upward as he landed. Akharu howled once again as Garret’s saber slashed open his gut, and he staggered back toward the cliff face. Garret attacked again, striking blow after blow. The demon skillfully blocked, and their swords sparked, even in the heavy rains.
With one last growl, Akharu summoned all of his strength and twirled in a beheading strike. His blade whistled through the air as he spun. Garret drew the obsidian blade from his belt, falling out of the way as the demon’s dark blade sliced the empty air above him. Then, he kicked upward, catching Akharu in the gut and sending him crashing back into the rocky cliff.
Akharu howled again as his blade was knocked from his h
and with the impact. Garret rose, leaping into the air; the obsidian blade poised to deliver the killing blow. His saber connected with Akharu’s gut, impaling him on the rocks. With his other hand, he thrust the obsidian blade into the demon’s heart.
A great flash of lightning illuminated the ledge like daylight as the demon cried out. His voice was a thundering plea that echoed across the rain soaked desert. Garret finished his attack with his face inches away from the demon’s. He leaned in closer, pressing the dagger deeper into Akharu’s heart. He could feel the life draining from the demon’s body, and could see the fire dim from his eyes.
The demon was defeated.
Garret withdrew his blades from Akharu’s body, stepping back as his enemy fell to his knees. The demon glared at him silently, waving back and forth as his strength diminished. His flesh began to wither before Garret’s eyes, and the assassin smiled grimly. Akharu drew a deep breath, exhaling painfully. His expression, now neutral, was fading into that of a death mask.
“Go now to your master, demon,” Garret hissed.
Akharu slumped forward, his body splashing into the sandy puddles that littered the ledge. Slowly, the body collapsed, disintegrating into the mud as Garret watched.
The assassin crouched, knowing that the moment he had waited for since his arrival would soon come to be. He waited patiently as Eamon climbed.
The king struggled to pull himself up to the ledge. The rain had made the rocks and sand slippery, and the last few feet were torturous. But, knowing what lay at the top, he was determined to get there. His hands, though cut and weak, gripped the edge tightly. He pulled himself over, landing face first in the wet sand. He clawed his way forward until his entire body was on level ground. He was breathless, exhausted, and injured.
But still, through the pain, he pushed himself up to a crouching position.
Before him, crouching in the sand and silhouetted by the glow of moonlit rain, was a familiar figure. Though he faced away from Eamon, the king knew him immediately. His heart pounded at the thought, and his throat tightened. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he sobbed silently as the man slowly turned.
Eclipsing the Darkness (The Dragon Chronicles Book 5) Page 11