Behemoth (The Jharro Grove Saga Book 6)

by Trevor H. Cooley

  Kyrkon let out a soft sigh. “I will need a few hours to prepare myself. Anyone who wishes to be there to hear his wishes should gather back here at dusk.”

  With that, the elf turned and headed for the doorway. Mistress Sarine gave his back a comforting pat on his way out. Qenzic leaned back against the wall and slid down to sit on the floor next to Lyramoor’s wrapped body, his face drooping in exhaustion. He winced as he drew his legs up in front of him.

  “Qenzic,” Fist said, stepping to his side. “You are still hurt. Can I heal you?”

  The warrior looked up at him with bleary eyes. “The wounds aren’t deep but . . . there’s nothing else I can do for him right now. I guess I wouldn’t stop you.”

  Fist knelt next to him and reached out. Qenzic hadn’t been completely truthful about his wounds. They were quite deep; puncture wounds that had entered his body at a downward angle. Fist thought it likely that they had come from the blades of air that the Priestess of War had been raining down upon her attackers. He had been lucky that no arteries had been hit.

  Whoever had field dressed him had done a good job, but the wounds had to have been paining him. Fist found it irksome that the warrior had been too stubborn to allow a wizard to see to him sooner.

  Why he wait? Rufus wondered through the bond. The rogue horse had shrunk his body down so that he fit easily inside the entryway with the others. His head was at equal height with Mistress Sarine’s shoulders.

  Lyramoor, Squirrel replied.

  Fist had to agree. Qenzic was punishing himself for not being quick enough to save his friend. It was ridiculous. They had thought the elf dead days ago.

  Grumbling inwardly, the ogre closed the man’s wounds with threads of water and earth magic, flushing out the slight bit of infection that had begun. It didn’t take too long, but Fist’s touch wasn’t exactly gentle.

  Qenzic shivered with the tingling intensity of the magic. “Thanks, Fist. Don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that healing magic.” He let out a stiff yawn and looked towards the doorway. “I should probably get out there and see if anyone needs my help.”

  Tsking, Mistress Sarine stepped forward and placed a hand on the guard’s forehead. “Get some rest, dear. It’ll do you good.”

  Qenzic’s eyes rolled up and he fell over on his side, instantly asleep next to Lyramoor’s bundle.

  “I didn’t know you could do sleep spells,” Fist said, as he rose to his feet. As far as he knew, Mistress Sarine had no elemental magic talent. Her skill was in spirit magic.

  “That was blessing magic, dear,” she explained. “It’s good at helping people relax. He was so tired he just needed a little push. I bolstered his recovery a bit too. He’ll feel quite refreshed when he wakes.”

  “Oh,” Fist said. He hadn’t realized quite how useful blessing magic could be.

  Sarine grasped his arm and urged him towards the inner doorway. “Let’s leave him be. We’re here for Locksher, aren’t we?”

  “Right,” Fist said, letting her lead him forward. “What did you need to speak with Locksher about?”

  “Oh, he asked Kyrkon to send for me through the bond,” she said. “He’s trying to catalogue some artifacts that he has found among the Priestess’ things and some of them are likely spirit magic related.”

  Fist ducked through the doorway into the greatroom beyond. The large open room took up the vast majority of the building. The ceiling was high and wide and glow orbs kept the place well lit. It was more fancy inside than Fist had expected. Lush animal skin rugs covered most of the dirt floor and the rock walls were covered in elaborate sculptures that the priestess must have created with magic. They seemed to be mostly homages to the Dark Prophet and his rise to power. The place made Fist uneasy.

  It feels wrong in here, Squirrel observed from his perch on Fist’s shoulder.

  Yes, agreed Rufus, peering at a carving of a scantily-clad priestess plunging a dagger into the chest of a naked man. Don’t like it.

  Locksher was at the rear of the room next to a large fireplace. His back was to them and he was crouched next to a squat throne that glowed gray with spirit magic. An iron-bound chest was open in front of him. A wide piece of canvas had been laid on the floor next to the open chest and a series of objects were laid out orderly on top of it. The wizard had a notebook open in his hands and was jotting down notes. Lenny wasn’t far from him, peering down at some of the items on the canvas.

  Fist walked across the rugs towards the wizard. “Master Locksher?”

  Locksher glanced back over his shoulder. He was wearing a pair of spectacles with multiple lenses balanced on the end of his nose. “Ah, there you are, Fist! And Mistress Sarine, I had hoped you would join me.” He motioned her forward. “Please, I could use your expertise.”

  As she joined Locksher beside the throne, Fist found himself drawn to another object in the room. Against the wall, on its own piece of canvas, was the body of the Priestess of War herself. Thankfully, someone had seen fit to cover the shattered remnants of her head. Fist had no desire to see that result of his fury again. He dragged his eyes away to something else of interest.

  Not far from where Lenny stood was the Priestess of War’s mace. Long handled and made of black iron, it was a mean-looking thing. It was carved with multiple runes and the head of it was covered with spiked ridges. Fist came closer to it and bend down to get a closer look.

  “Don’t touch that, son,” Lenny said, stretching out a warning hand. “Durn thing’s cursed.”

  “Cursed how?” Fist wondered. To his mage sight, it glowed black with earth magic and to his spirit sight it was an even deeper black. Almost as dark as one of the Dark Prophet’s daggers.

  “Hard to explain,” the dwarf said, crouching next to the item. “I can see what the elemental runes do. Intricate work. Smart. It’s made real dense and heavy, like maybe twenty times the weight a piece of iron its size should weigh. But fer the person whose grabbin’ the handle, it should feel as light as if it were made of wood.”

  Fist nodded. That explained the way she wielded it so easily despite the incredible impact it made. “It sure was effective.”

  “Yeah but that part ain’t workin’. Charz had a hell of a time carryin’ it in here ’fore the blasted thing bit him. Locksher thinks it’s probly got a spirit bound to it.”

  “It has,” said Sarine. The sorceress had turned away from Locksher and was facing them, having overheard their conversation. “The spirit of a giant. Bound against its will and in such a way that it could not break free no matter how much it resisted.”

  “You know all that about it?” Lenny said in surprise.

  “Cassandra was quite proud of it,” she replied, her eyes flickering to the corpse of the priestess. “Bragged about it as a great gift from the Dark Prophet. Made specifically to destroy magically reinforced weapons and armor. The poor soul has been forced to power this weapon against its will for centuries. It is no wonder that it lashes out at anyone who touches it.”

  “That explains how it destroyed Tolivar’s old sword,” Lenny mused.

  “And my shield,” Fist added, frowning thoughtfully. A soul bound against its will for centuries? From what he understood, binding something against its will was a temporary thing. The resulting item would be powerful, but volatile. The spirit would eventually break free. “Is there a way to release the spirit?”

  “If we destroy the item, or tear apart the magic that binds it, yes,” said Sarine. “But it would take a powerful enchanter indeed to tear the bindings placed there by the Dark Prophet.”

  Lenny snorted. “And we ain’t breakin’ the thing, that’s fer sure. The magic that’s protectin’ it’s real friggin’ powerful.”

  “Ooh ooh! John can do it,” Rufus suggested.

  Sarine smiled at the rogue horse. “I am certain he could, dear thing. He isn’t here at the moment, though.”

  “The only thing to be done is lock it away,” Locksher decided. “There are places in the Rune To
wer where we keep things this dangerous.”

  “And have you figgered out how to get it there?” Lenny said. “Charz ain’t carryin’ it back to the Mage School. That’s fer sure.”

  “I am still thinking on that,” Locksher said. “Perhaps if we wrapped it in leather we would be able to touch it without being attacked.”

  The dwarf’s eyes widened. “You wanna be the one to try that theory out?”

  “Master Locksher,” interrupted Fist, his brow tight with concern.

  “You mustn’t call me that any longer,” Locksher replied. “You have been named by the Bowl of Souls. I can’t rightly call you my apprentice now, can I?” He let out a wry laugh. “I suppose I should get used to calling you, Master Fist.”

  Normally, Fist would have argued against that, but at the moment he had a greater concern. “Locksher, that thing in your hands . . . I don’t think you should be holding it.”

  “This?” Locksher lifted the item he had just retrieved from the chest.

  It was a long narrow box made of dark wood. It was encrusted with runes and a jade stone was set in the top of it. To Fist’s spirit sight, it was wrapped tightly in cords of powerful white and black spirit magic. He wasn’t exactly sure of their purpose, but his instincts told him that their purpose was to restrain whatever was in that box.

  “He is right,” said Sarine, focusing in on the box Locksher held. “I don’t know with a certainty what is in there, but I would set that aside to be locked away with Cassandra’s mace.”

  “Spirit Magic, then?” Locksher said with a raised eyebrow. He set the box down carefully on the canvas and jotted a note in his notebook. “This is why I asked for you to join me. There are so many things in here that I am uncertain about. I am afraid that I am out of the proper herbs that let me see this sort of thing. I was foolish not to bring more on this journey with me.”

  Fist took a closer look at the orderly line of items on the canvas. Most of them looked to be broken weapons; knives mostly, but the occasional sword hilt with a sliver of broken blade attached. Most of them glowed dully with some sort of elemental magic. “What is all this?”

  “The remnants of naming weapons,” Sarine replied with a mournful look. “Cassandra took great pride in hunting down those named by the Bowl of Souls. When someone named dies, their rune weapons break, becoming useless. These are her trophies.”

  “All of them?” Fist said in shock. Had he really defeated a woman who had slain so many servants of the Bowl?

  Locksher let out a grunt of interest. He pulled a dagger from within the chest. “Not all of them are broken. This one has a slight crack across the naming rune, but still seems to be intact.”

  Sarine let out a gasp. She reached out one shaking hand. “It can’t be . . .”

  Blinking, Locksher held the dagger out to her. It was a ceremonial dagger, like many wizards used at the Mage School. It looked to be of fine make and sparkled faintly with the gold hue of air magic.

  “Fist!” Sarine clutched the dagger in her hands, running a finger over the cracked naming rune. “This dagger belonged to Artemus.”

  Chapter Two

  The funeral took place a few hours later than Kyrkon intended.

  A disagreement broke out over where the ceremony should be held. The only place in the valley that did not still reek of death was inside the Priestess of War’s stone building but, seeing as how this was the location of his death as well as the obscene nature of many of the statues, it was deemed unacceptable.

  In the end, it was decided to transfer Lyramoor’s body out of the valley and past the walls that the priestess had raised during the war. Charz carried him, leading a surprisingly lengthy line of ogres.

  Lyramoor’s time training the ogres and helping them with their defenses had left them with a healthy respect. Different ogre tribes had different traditions as far as whether the bodies were buried or burned or simply covered with rocks, but one thing was universal. Ogre funerals were filled with chest beating and howling. From what Charz told them, this would be very different and many of them were interested in this elven way of honoring the dead.

  There was a visible sigh of relief from everyone as they passed through the tunnel in the Priestess’ wall and came out the other side. The air here seemed sweet and pure after the stench they had been marinating in all day.

  It was past nightfall by the time they gathered near Wizard Valtrek’s wagon. The bonded and the Thunder People were joined shortly thereafter by Faldon the Fierce, who brought with him the Academy Council and a score of other Academy warriors that had worked with or known Lyramoor in the past. All-in-all, there were well over fifty men and ogres present, standing in a wide circle around the body. The crowd quieted as Kyrkon moved forward to start the ceremony.

  The elf looked uncomfortable, hesitating as he knelt in front of the bundle containing Lyramoor’s body. Fist couldn’t blame him. The elf performing the ceremony took on a huge responsibility. They took the spirit of the deceased inside of themselves and the experience left a mark on them. He had seen the effect on Antyni after Qyxal’s funeral. Though her brother’s spirit faded and left, his knowledge and experience had remained inside her forever.

  Kyrkon pulled back the canvas exposing Lyramoor’s head.

  Fist hadn’t seen the elf’s body after it was discovered and hadn’t known what to expect. To his relief, Lyramoor’s face looked undamaged. Though still scarred as ever, the elf looked at peace in a way he never had in life.

  Kyrkon smoothed back Lyramoor’s hair from his face and sat back on his heels. He then pulled a small flask from the inside of one pocket and uncorked it. The elf paused, his cheeks reddening.

  “This should be interesting,” Maryanne said, sidling up to Fist and hooking her arm through his. She and her other bonded were standing next to him and Rufus. “Kyrkon is a horrible singer.”

  “Really?” Fist whispered. He hadn’t imagined elves capable of bad singing. Antyni’s song at Qyxal’s funeral had been so beautiful as to cause him to cry.

  “Be kind, dear,” Sarine admonished Maryanne.

  “She’s right, though,” said Old Bill with an embarrassed grunt. Then more softly than Fist had ever heard a dwarf speak, added, “A real ear-bleeder.”

  Kyrkon dipped his finger into the flask and started to softly murmur a chant in elvish. His voice was low and Fist thought it didn’t sound all that bad. A little off maybe, but it was hard to tell. Kyrkon began to trace a symbol on Lyramoor’s forehead in a glittering golden oil. The air became filled with the smell of spring leaves.

  Then Kyrkon’s voice rose. The elf was really off-key; mournful, but grating. Kyrkon tried to cover it up by switching to a lower register, but it came off sounding worse.

  “Dag-gum!” Lenny grumbled.

  However bad the song was, it was working. As the elf finished tracing the symbol on Lyramoor’s forehead, Fist saw a wisp of white spirit magic rising from the center of the symbol.

  Kyrkon’s voice grew louder. He dipped his finger in the flask again and began tracing the oil on his own forehead. Several ogre voices started in, their disharmonic voices joining with his.

  Fist grimaced. He wondered if he should try and get their attention so that they would stop, but there was no way to do so delicately. Besides, the singing portion was almost over. A curl of white spirit magic had sprouted from Kyrkon’s head as well.

  Kyrkon’s voice reached a crescendo, his off-key melody quickening as he bent down, bringing his forehead close to Lyramoor’s. The white strands of spirit magic intertwined becoming one solid cord. Then the song faded. Kyrkon straightened up and the spirit magic left Lyramoor completely, sliding into the symbol on Kyrkon’s forehead.

  With a tender smile, Kyrkon placed his hand over the dead elf’s forehead for a brief moment. He then folded the canvas back over Lyramoor’s head, covering him. Slowly, he came to his feet.

  “Lyramoor’s thoughts are with me now,” Kyrkon announced. The entranced ogre
s oohed appreciatively, while several of the Academy warriors shot each other doubtful looks.

  “He is . . .” Kyrkon winced. “Not particularly happy that we are doing this.”

  “Shall we stop it?” Qenzic asked in concern.

  Kyrkon closed his eyes for a moment, a patient expression coming over his angular face as he conversed with Lyramoor’s spirit. When he opened his eyes again, he shook his head. “There is no stopping it at this point. He understands this, but as ever, he is not a conventional elf.”

  Qenzic frowned. “What does that mean?”

  Kyrkon’s eyes took in the whole crowd. “Normally, I would go around to each of you and deliver a final personal message from him. But, Lyramoor does not wish to do that.”

  “Wouldn’t be his way,” Lenny agreed.

  “True as that may be, however,” said Kyrkon. “An elven funeral is not just for the dead. This is also for those that loved him to get their closure.”

  That loved him? Squirrel wondered with a snort.

  Yes! Rufus replied. The rogue horse had spent a lot of time scouting with the elf and had grown fond of him.

  Fist sent Squirrel an admonishing thought, but knew he had a point. Lovable wasn’t a word any one would use when describing Lyramoor. Nevertheless, he had been a loyal companion and was deserving of respect and gratitude for his service. The mere fact of how many people had showed up for this funeral proved that.

  “Though he doesn’t necessarily want me saying this, you should all know that Lyramoor was surprised when I showed him the number of people who came here today. He is . . .” Kyrkon hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Touched that so many of you care.”

  “Don’t sugarcoat it, Kyrkon,” Maryanne said under her breath.

  But Kyrkon’s words had an impact on the crowd. A sad mumble passed through the ranks of the Academy men. Several of the ogres mournfully cried out, “Lyramooor!”