Sword of Light (The Knights of the Golden Dragons - Book One)

by Reaves, Troy

  18

  Hell’s Doorway

  The last of the warriors of faith, one devoted to the God of Light, two following the Goddess of Nature, and the rogue trusting in luck, sat near the fire in the middle of a desolate road leading into the darkness of the Forsaken Mountains. Gregor prayed quietly. He had taken up the habit each night of offering thanks to the God of Light, and entreating his God to provide safety for Lord Silverwing. The holy warrior knew what news Sephia's companion brought before the falcon had landed on her shoulder. Gregor had felt a surge of pain course through his body, bringing his head to his bent knees in front of him, and knew his master was made to suffer, or worse. Boremac was the first to notice that his daggers no longer glowed. The rogue wondered what it could mean.

  Tana had risen to comfort Gregor, only to be brought up short by his raised hand. The young knight raised his head from his bent knees and shared his pain with the others. “I have failed my master. Lord Silverwing can find no peace. The Tharnorsa has him and I only pray the demon will allow him to live until I can reach him. Only his faith can save him now.”

  Keen, the falcon at Sephia's shoulder, dipped its head briefly as if in reverence as Gregor spoke. The bird related what it had witnessed to its companion with the light clicking of its beak and subtle wing flourishes. Sephia stared at Keen intently before she turned to address the others at the fire. “Lord Silverwing has been taken, and all those who traveled with him were slain. Keen followed your mentor's captors and has found a way into the place where he was taken. Keen was unable to see what lies beyond the entrance to the cave where the demon bloods dragged him, but no one emerged after entering. We will find Lord Silverwing there.”

  Gregor turned his face to speak directly to the Ardataure, the only remaining representative of the Ancient Forest Sephia called home. “Sephia, you must go to Mistress Mithrina and inform her we have found the enemy. She will want to assemble whom she can to purge the lands of this plague. We can find our way to the cave with your guidance and have no need of your scouting any longer. You are the fastest of our number, and Keen can fly ahead of you as well to deliver the message, I assume.”

  Sephia nodded in assent. “Yes, Mistress Mithrina will understand the message he brings to the Grove. I will go and do as you wish. Goddess protect you all.” The keeper of the Ancient Forest disappeared into the dark night, heading down the road back toward the Grove in Zanthfar, after making a detailed outline of the best route for the group to follow to find the tunnel they would need to enter.

  Boremac coughed into his hand to draw Tana and Gregor's attention. Gregor was not sure if it was the firelight, or something else, but the rogue appeared concerned. He waited patiently for the rogue to speak. “Master Gregor, or Gregor if you please and take no offense, do you really think it is wise to challenge a foe that appears to have so easily taken Lord Silverwing? The knight's skills, and wisdom besides, were far beyond your own. Even if we give you the credit of possessing some advantage by knowing who you face, the power of the Tharnorsa and this possessed priest together would be your undoing. I see little profit in you facing the two of them at so severe a disadvantage.” Tana voiced her thoughts with a huff at hearing the rogues' words, but chose to allow the men to continue their dialogue without interruption.

  Despite the lingering pain in Gregor's body, he smiled knowingly at Boremac before replying. “They underestimate my commitment, and I doubt you and Tana have been factored into their careful planning. They expect only a young holy warrior bent on vengeance, not a cunning rogue devoted to self-preservation and a huntress who has skills that are unmatched among her kind. I think you can appreciate the advantage of surprise on the side of our meager group.”

  Boremac cocked an eyebrow at the knight's words, ready with a sharp reply of his own as if he had anticipated just such a response from the young man. “You sound more like your mentor all the time, holy blade. That is disturbing, to put it mildly. I suppose now you will perform the last of your sermons before we rush into the maw of death. Skip the speeches in honor of the God of Light. We should get down the road while night still covers us.”

  Tana spoke at last, breaking her silence after she had watched the two discuss the group's fate. “Gregor, you know it pains me to do so, but I have to agree with the bandit this time. Whether we are fated to live or die, we may as well get to the end of it. Sephia's directions will put us at the gates of hell by tomorrow after nightfall if we stop to rest during the day when the sun rises. Let's let the walk warm us and see if we cannot set the world right tomorrow.”

  ***

  Fasurel lay just inside the mine entrance where he and Silverwing had entered to travel to the other side of the mountain. The mountain man had regretted leaving the knight, and held little hope that Silverwing still lived. Fasurel had taken wounds of his own once he had entered the mine at the far side, when the demon bloods had hunted him down, intent on his destruction. The ranger had chosen the lizard form of his long dead animal companion to flee deeper into the mine shaft, but even six legs had not made him fast enough to avoid his relentless pursuers. In the end, he had turned to face nearly twenty of the creatures and had the torn flesh to prove it. His enemies had failed to capture or kill him, and his claws had torn them to bits in the end, but four of Fasurel's six reptilian legs hung useless from his body. Some amount of luck allowed the ranger to rip the heads from the last two attackers he had killed. Soon the wounds he had sustained would claim him, so in the end it had made little difference.

  Fasurel awakened to the first sound of hope, certain he was having a fever dream brought by the loss of blood. His lizard form had given him just enough speed to find a hiding place, but not enough strength to get to a village. The rough voice of one of his brothers carried into the mine from the entrance near where Fasurel lay. Light, little more than a flickering blur at the opening, gave the only indication that the mountain man had been found, and Fasurel was thinking it was an angel of death coming to take him home. “Master Fasurel? Master Fasurel! Are ya there?! Shaman sent me ta gather ya! Ya there? Damn ya, ya bes' no' be dead, I come as fas' as I could!”

  Fasurel scraped the ground with his remaining strength to draw the ranger's attention into the mine where he lay. He had no voice left to speak, but the scrabbling noises were enough.

  “I 'ear ya, Master Fasurel! I 'ear ya! Lay still, ya' old fool! Gonna wear yerself out!” Moments later the sound of rough boots slapping the rocks sounded near where Fasurel lay, a mutilated giant in a pool of his own blood. It was the sweetest sound the mountain ranger could recall in all his life. “Went an' made a mess o' yerself, I see!” Dramor knelt down by Fasurel’s unmoving form, noting the shallow rise and fall of his chest and the odd angle of one of his legs. “Lemme get ya fixed up. Bes' take your normal form as I doubt I can carry ya like this.” Fasurel morphed into his naked bipedal form, with Dramor wasting no time setting his brother's broken leg and tying up the wounds Fasurel had sustained, holding his own healing gifts to the last. He set his hands to Fasurel's more serious wounds and drew on his limited powers to heal what he could.”'Fraid I ain't much fer the healing arts, but that'll hold ya til I can get ya to the shaman. Gotta pick you up, Master Fasurel, an’ I be feared it's gonna hurt awful. Grit yer teeth an' with a bit a luck ya pass out.” Fasurel nodded by way of reply and gritted his teeth as he was instructed. The stout mountain man slung Master Fasurel over his shoulder like a bag of rocks and started off toward the nearest village. Fasurel's luck held once more, and the wounded ranger slipped into a gentle darkness as Dramor took his brother home.

  ***

  The road was easy to follow, and no creature roamed near the path Sephia had laid out for the group. They had taken a brief rest at Tana's insistence as the midday sun heated the rocky path. Even Boremac, so used to exercising his tongue, had said little as they finished eating their remaining foodstuffs and saved only enough water for the return journey. No one thought they would be leaving the For
saken Mountains, and each prepared themselves for the end in their own way. Gregor had spoken quietly with Tana before they started down the road once more.

  Gregor removed the curative potion that Mistress Mithrina had given him so long ago and held it out to Tana. “Take this and heal Lord Silverwing, if his heart still beats in his chest. The sword of the Knight of the Golden Dragon must be restored. If I am to be slain, Lord Silverwing will be the only hope for destroying Father Tur'morival. The future of the world should not be trusted to one so young. That is something the rogue and I agree upon.” Gregor's eyes were filled with so many more things he longed to say to her but could not, not now when he was at the edge of his destiny and saw only darkness ahead of him.

  Tana read the thoughts that the holy warrior could not disguise and brought her hand up to touch his cheek while she accepted the potion with the other hand. “You cannot see what is so plain to all of the others who look into your eyes, Gregor. We will speak of many things once this is over, and there is no other with whom I would choose to share such gifts.” Tana leaned close to Gregor and gently touched her lips to his, drawing her head back with a knowing wink.

  Boremac's voice carried over to where Tana and Gregor sat, the rogue making no attempt to hide his amusement. “If you two are done saying your goodbyes, I believe we have a bit of unfinished business at the end of this road. Hate to break up the party, but no point in postponing the inevitable any longer.” The rogue rose, dusting himself off before helping the other two to their feet.

  ***

  The broken terrain before them defied description. Vast craters topped ever-growing mountains that poured lava down their sides and spewed ash into the blackened sky. Bits of landscape not covered by molten rock were permanently scarred with deep crevasses from the irregular rivers of glowing rock that poured, with no discernible pattern, across the Forsaken Mountains. No stars shown in the darkness above, and the moon did not dare peek from behind the great swirling clouds high above them.

  “So, this is hell. The better I should know where I am headed when I get killed out here, I guess. Makes the trip terribly short when you walk right in like this.” Boremac studied the landscape, looking for the telltale cave entrance of which Sephia had spoken. “Ah, there it is. Conveniently located between two broad flows of molten rock. Looks like we are out of luck, kids. We did all we could. I guess we will just have to head home now.” As the rogue turned to start back the way they had come, Tana and Gregor grabbed him by the arms and went to take a look for themselves.

  “You claim to be a capable guide, and you fail to note the bridge of stone someone has constructed. Narrow though it may be, it will serve our purpose.” Tana spun the rogue around until he faced the cave entrance once more.

  Boremac was moved to answer, “That, dear huntress, would depend entirely upon your purpose.”

  Gregor quoted the rogue's chiding remark from the campfire just a few days before. “I will take you to your doom to prove the strength of the word I gave your mentor.' Would you turn away from the chance to prove your word to the very man to whom you swore that oath? There is no hazard here, if the daggers you possess are to be trusted. In all likelihood, the danger to us all has passed, and Lord Silverwing only lies wounded, awaiting us to take him home.” Gregor tried to sound hopeful but his own sad eyes betrayed his feelings as he voiced the thought. “Remain here if you must, Boremac. You are not bound to me, and you will prove to be of little worth if you are constantly checking your rear.”

  Boremac was never really sure if it was Gregor's words, or Tana's laughter after the words were spoken, that pushed him to continue. In the end, he figured it was each in equal measure. Later, as he reflected on where that choice had taken him, he realized that it mattered very little what the cause had been. The effect ended up being much the same as it always was; Boremac up to his neck in the proverbial cow dung once more.

  ***

  The imp messenger danced convulsively on Father Tur'morival's extended palm as it gibbered in the dark language of the Abyss. The priest rose from his throne and brought the stone into his free hand with one smooth motion, though the words he spoke to the imp conveyed no sign of pleasure at the information the creature brought. “The blade bearer is here? Why would the demon not share this with me? He will pay dearly for this deception. The Tharnorsa tests the limits of my patience. Lord Silverwing should have been destroyed when he was taken to the demon, and now this? What possible profit can the demon hope to find in keeping the young knight from me?” Even as the words passed Father Tur'morival's curled lips, the priest felt he knew exactly what the demon's intention was. The creature would find this summoner was not so easily undone.

  The priest lifted the crimson soul stone even with his hooded gaze and spoke directly into it as the mists within ignited. Father Tur'morival directed his words into the demon's mind, making certain the cunning Tharnorsa could not twist the communication and its intent. Obviously the demon needed a reminder of the power the priest held over the creature. Father Tur'morival found it curious that he could not see through the eyes of his unwilling servant, but it did not matter. “You have disobeyed my commands for the last time, demon. Kill the knights and bring them before me now, or suffer at the hands of the Unnamed One for all eternity. This I command, and I invoke your name and thus your compliance, Siniamadrau!”

  Father Tur'morival felt the surge of anger and pain that penetrated the demon’s mind as its true name was spoken. The priest wished he could sacrifice the powers of the soul stone, dismissing the demon immediately, but there would be time for that once the two holy warriors were dead. Both Father Tur'morival and Siniamadrau shared a link that could not be severed, not yet.

  19

  Reunion

  Several horrors battled to overcome Gregor as he entered the vast cavern. The boiling contents of lava-filled craters positioned at each side of a gigantic throne provided the only light. The grotesque throne itself dominated the center of the room. Its rear portion, capped with a ram's head formed of black shimmering stone and possessing glimmering eyes the color of blood, was nearly lost in the darkness overhead. The body of the throne itself depicted images too terrible for Gregor to contemplate. Two other forms drew Gregor's attention as the remaining three companions moved into the vast open area, walking slowly toward the base of the demon's throne.

  The first was a vaguely humanoid creature with two horns curving out of its scaled skull, and eyes that flickered with flames. The creature's mouth bore ugly fangs at each corner, pointing at its razor-clawed feet. A thick, split tongue darted out of the creature's mouth at random intervals, as if the demon were anticipating its next meal. The serpentine tail darting around the creature's back, with shiny reptilian skin forming flaps at either side of a jagged stinger, seemed to have a mind of its own. The wicked appendage darted around its host, intermittently flaring its fleshy wings threateningly, and in the next moment resting at the demon's shoulder like a trusted pet.

  The demon before Gregor did not disturb him nearly as much as the body lying on the seat of the massive throne. Even at this distance, the young knight could make out the shimmering pool of blood surrounding the figure. The swords at the unmoving form's sides confirmed Gregor's worst fears, though what remained of Lord Silverwing was little more than a mass of flayed flesh and tattered armor. Only the irregular rise and fall of his chest gave Gregor any hope at all.

  The demon began to speak in a tone that was conversational, almost reverent, distracting Gregor from Silverwing’s tortured form. “Lord Lightsword, I am honored to finally meet you. You have grown since our last encounter. Hopefully your wisdom and skill has grown to match your title. Forgive me. I assume you recognize me in my chosen form, so different from our last meeting. Allow me to refresh your memory.” The Tharnorsa grew to its normal full height, shedding the skin of the humanoid form it possessed only moments before. The great demon stared down at the three humans before it with a broad grin dominat
ing its features. It took a single step backward, scooping some unseen object from the arm of its throne, and brought its horned head down to meet Gregor's gaze. “I am certain you remember me now, young knight. The years have not erased that night from your memory.” Not waiting for a reply, the demon reassumed his humanoid form and closed the distance between the knight and himself.

  Hatred burned in Gregor as he watched the demon approach once more. The knight stayed his hand, resisting with every bit of will he had the urge to draw his blade and cut the demon to pieces. The creature had not caused Boremac's blades to shine with their warning white glow, and there had to be some reason for it. The demon spoke once more, as if reading Gregor's thoughts. “Your God shares no warning because I am no threat to you, Lord Lightsword. We seek the same thing, you and I. Freedom from the evil that threatens the peace of this world. You know who your true enemy is. I am only a servant to that Master.”