Garret drew his daggers, facing them outward, and crept up behind them. They were too far apart to kill simultaneously. He would have to kill one, then quickly move to kill the other before he could react. It would be a difficult task, but he was up to it.
Taking a deep breath, he decided on the guard to the left first. He crept up silently, reaching out with his left hand to grasp the guard’s right shoulder. He pulled roughly, spinning the guard around and plunged his dagger in the man’s gut. The guard grunted, prompting his companion to turn and poise his pike to strike. The thrust came quickly, catching Garret off guard. Nevertheless, he dodged the strike, grabbing the pike with his left hand and flinging his dagger in a counter strike. The guard’s eyes widened as the dagger struck his throat. He choked and gagged, struggling to pull the dagger free. Garret calmly pulled it out, watching as the guard breathed his last breath.
There was still no sound from deeper inside the tent. Only the canvas walls separated him from the occupants, so it was unlikely that anyone inside was oblivious to what had just happened. The leader, or at least Twyla had to have heard. Carefully, he sheathed his daggers and drew his sword, walking casually into the tent’s main area. He was completely expecting what he saw.
Standing in the center of the room was the Jindala leader, richly dressed, perfumed, and holding a dagger to a young woman’s throat. The woman was still tied to the main support post, her head held back, and the dagger placed against her soft flesh in a position to be quickly drawn across in a killing move. Garret looked the leader in the eye, smiling as he pondered the enjoyment he would get in killing him.
“Who are you?” the leader asked.
“You needn’t concern yourself with that,” Garret replied coldly. “It will not matter shortly.”
“What do you want?”
“I want the girl,” Garret demanded. “Release her now and face me like a man.”
“She’s just a peasant,” the leader insisted. “She means nothing.”
Garret casually slung his sword against his shoulder, pacing slowly back and forth.
“Maybe not to you,” he said. “But she is loved by her father and her friends.”
Twyla looked at Garret out of the corner of her eye. She was smiling slightly, and her eyes did not convey any fear. Garret returned her look, smiling also, knowing that a girl like this always had a plan.
“My name is Mamoud,” the leader said. “I am the military Governor of this outpost. I have guards in the field. They will be returning shortly.”
“If you are referring to the guards you sent to Jax’s Pub to relieve the attachment there, then I must warn you that I already killed them.”
Mamoud’s brow furrowed, a look of anger on his face.
“That’s correct,” Garret continued, inching closer and closer to Mamoud. “All of your guards here are dead. And when I return this young woman to her father, I will kill the rest of them.”
“What are you?” Mamoud demanded.
“I am the Queen’s loyal subject,” Garret replied. “And I protect my Queen and our people.”
Mamoud laughed wickedly, his brown teeth showing through his thick facial hair. “Then you protect a dead woman,” he taunted. “And her doomed subjects. When the Prophet arrives with her escorts, your peop—“
Twyla’s foot in Mamoud’s groin cut short his threat. She had grabbed his knife hand and pulled it away from her throat, driving her foot into his vital area. The leader doubled over in pain, and Garret seized the opportunity to rush forward and slash at the dazed man. But Mamoud was quick and had drawn his scimitar as he crouched, slapping Garret’s own sword aside as the assassin struck.
Garret spun around behind him, slashing low. Mamoud also spun, blocking Garret’s attack and backing away from the dangerous woman. Garret shot her a glance as she casually leaned against the support post to watch the fight. Mamoud struck, spinning his blade in alternating arcs interspersed with horizontal attacks. Garret blocked, backing away with each attack.
“I thought you were tied up!” Garret said to Twyla as he parried the Jindala’s strikes.
“I was,” she replied. “But I got meself loose before ye came.”
“Quiet, wench!” Mamoud yelled, releasing a series of vicious forward and backhanded strikes at Garret.
Garret saw Twyla’s eyes narrow as he blocked Mamoud’s attacks. He continued parrying and striking at the skilled Jindala, amazed at how quick the man was. Suddenly, a vase sailed across the room, smashing Mamoud in the side of the head. The Jindala stopped, his sword arm going limp and letting loose. He turned, dazed, to look at Twyla, who stood ready to hurl another vase at him. Mamoud stumbled to the side, turning back to Garret as the assassin sheathed his sword. Then, he fell to the floor.
Garret stared at him briefly as he lay there, then turned to Twyla, who stood smugly. He gave her a questioning look.
“I almost had him,” Garret said. “Why did you do that?”
“I don’t like when the patrons call me wench,” she hissed. “And I sure don’t like a fancy pants dog doing it, either.”
Garret chuckled. “How long have you been untied?” he asked.
“For nearly an hour,” she replied, rearranging her garments, which had been torn. “I was planning on waiting until he fell asleep. Then I would make me escape.”
“He would have done something to you before he ever fell asleep,” Garret reminded her.
“Aye,” Twyla replied. “He already tried that. Couldn’t...uh...get his dagger sharp enough, if ye catch me drift.”
Garret shook his head, amazed at the young woman’s demeanor in the face of such a potential trauma. Obviously, she was a young woman capable of handling herself. Garret respected that.
“Come then,” he said. “I’ll escort you back home. There are guards remaining who are awaiting their relief. If they get rowdy enough, they may not be as polite as they’ve been before.”
Twyla nodded. “Alright,” she said. “But I’ll drive. We’ll take the wagon. I’m not much for tramping through the woods.”
“Agreed.”
Twyla gathered what little things of value were in the tent—which wasn’t much—and smiled.
“I’m ready,” she said, and walked out the door. Garret chuckled again, and followed.
It would be an interesting trip.
Farouk was in the grips of a deep sleep; a sleep that only a Druid can experience. Before him in his mind, a dark dream took place. He knew he was not the dreamer, but that he was observing, or taking part, in the dream of another. He could only feel the faint aura of this person's identity in his soul. It was an aura of a troubled mind, a troubled heart. Someone whose life had been turned upside down and was now filled with hardship.
It was Prince Eamon.
He saw through Eamon's eyes. When the Prince walked, Farouk walked. Whatever the Prince beheld, Farouk beheld. He could feel Eamon's fear and confusion. He could feel his need for answers. He knew that Eamon had a question on his mind. One that only Farouk, perhaps, could answer.
Eamon walked along a dark corridor; Dol Drakkar, Farouk knew. He was descending a long stairway into what Farouk could only guess would be some kind of antechamber. The stairway was carved of onyx, and the walls were decorated with draconic symbols and lit with the faint glow of reddish torch light. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, a large set of double doors opened, revealing darkness inside.
He entered the room, nervous, Farouk could feel. The light slowly began to grow as he walked farther in, revealing the carved walls, and many murals that the Prince had seen before. They were murals of great battles of the past, picturing the Dragon, the past kings of Eirenoch, and the many knights that had served under them. The murals were a celebration of all of the men who had been known as the Knights of the Dragon. And as Farouk gazed at them through Eamon's eyes, he felt the pride that the Prince himself felt.
Suddenly, a brilliant light erupted from the far end of the room. Thr
ough the dust and debris, Farouk could see a massive form lying prone on the floor. The Prince approached, seeing that a line of men stood in front what appeared to be a giant skeleton. The skeleton of a dragon; The Dragon. Eamon spoke the name Dagda; a word which in the ancient tongue of Eirenoch meant "father." Farouk could feel Eamon's sense of kinship with the ancient being that was truly his sire. This Firstborn that had taken human form and fathered the Prince as he had done so many times before.
In front of the massive skull stood a large man in black dragon armor. He bore a great helm that resembled the dragon's features; spines, scales, and great horns that curved forward. On either side of the man were three figures armored in similar garb, and wielding a variety of different weapons. These were the Knights of the Dragon; the original order that had served Dagda himself in the beginning. All of them were scarred and brutish in appearance, having seen many battles in the past, except for one. On the far right from Eamon's point of view, the last and final knight had a mask, or a helm that covered his face. Farouk could feel Eamon's confusion. Indeed, on all of the murals, one knight was always pictured with a covered face. He could not guess why, nor even begin to think of a reason.
Eamon approached the sixth knight, the rest of them watching him closely. Even the man in the middle, whom Farouk guessed was the Dragon himself, watched silently. The knight stood motionless as Eamon stood in front of him. Farouk urged the Prince to reach out to touch the mask that covered the knight's face. It was scaled and rough beneath his fingers, but did not feel as if it were made of metal or dragon skin. It was merely a metaphor, it seemed. Though he tried, the Prince could not remove the mask. It seemed to be there for a reason, and Eamon was not meant to know why.
Farouk willed Eamon to stand in front of the Dragon. As he did so, he felt the sadness that Eamon felt for the ancient being. Like all the Firstborn, the Dragon was imprisoned within the Earth, and was powerless to assist in the defense of the Great Mother. Farouk felt that sadness as well. The Dragon would be a fierce ally, and, at the side of all of the other Firstborn, they could surely expel the Lifegiver and all of his minions with ease. Even Imbra, who was never a war-like being, had the power to wreak massive destruction upon his enemies. The Dragon was meant for battle, as was Kronos; the Firstborn that Farouk was set off to free.
"Why?" Eamon asked. "Why can I not see the knight's face?"
The Dragon stepped forward, placing his hands on his son's shoulders. "You are not meant to see it," he replied, his voice deep and booming. "You will know why when you find your last knight."
"I do not understand."
"You will, my son," the Dragon assured him. "When the time is right."
Farouk felt Eamon's frustration, but also his sense of restraint. He trusted the Dragon's word. He was, after all, the master of this land, and his will was strong. If the Dragon gave his word, it was good.
"Awaken, my son," the Dragon said. "Your people need you."
"What shall I do next?" Eamon wondered. "See Traegus, or go to Gaellos?"
"Ulrich is capable of leading your army in your absence," the Dragon said. "Traegus will not be needed until the time comes to march on Faerbane. It is Argan you need to worry about now, and it is there you will find the answers you seek. Your new friend, Jadhav, will be of use. Go there now, and Jadhav will guard the coasts. Trust in him, my son. He will not let you down."
Eamon nodded.
"Go now," the Dragon urged him. "Awaken."
Farouk's vision faded as Eamon awoke. The link was gone now, and the Druid wondered why he was shown the dream in the first place. Perhaps the Prince needed some guidance, and, with Jodocus gone, Farouk would have to provide it. He would go to him, and counsel him as best he could. And while he was there, he would get to see Azim.
He only hoped his teleportation spell would work.
Chapter Ten
The inn at Bray was quiet and still when Eamon awoke. He rubbed his eyes, blinking several times to clear his vision. The room in which he had fallen asleep the night before was still shadowy. Only a few faint rays of the morning sunlight came through the shuttered window, lighting the air with a pleasant, warm glow. He sat up, glancing to the bedside table upon which the Serpent's Tongue rested safely.
He stood, willing his armor to return only halfway; just his boots, leather leggings, and tunic. There was no need for anything more at the moment. Walking to the window, he opened the shutters fully, letting the sunlight pour in. The town was quiet, with only a few commoners walking amongst the docks and walkways. The bay itself was littered with the scraps of the Jindala ships, the flotsam and jetsam littering the shoreline and undulating among the waves. At the largest dock, Jadhav's underwater vessel was tied.
It was a strange contraption; looking like a cross between a dragonfly and some kind of odd fish. How these people had managed to build such an incredible vessel was beyond him. Even more so was the concept of how it worked. He had never imagined a vessel that could sail underwater or rise and sink at will. Surely the Druaga, who were master engineers, could build something similar, but never an ordinary human. He would have to get to know Jadhav, and find out his secret. With such a vessel, Faerbane could be easily taken. The only question was whether Jadhav could be trusted to do it on his own. There were pressing matters in Gaellos with the Jindala army marching upon it, and also the prospect of visiting Traegus at his compound. Fortunately, Southwatch was not far from Gaellos.
But there was still the matter of Argan and Faillaigh. Both towns were still under Jindala control as far as he knew, and he would not abandon them. The decisions were difficult, to say the least, and the proper order of events was important to the success of the South's liberation. The Dragon had advised him to go to Argan. He was sure there was a reason for it. He did not doubt the Dragon's wisdom, but a part of him still wondered why going to Argan first was so important. He trusted Ulrich's ability to defend Gaellos, but did not understand why Traegus' assistance was not yet needed. Surely a great and powerful wizard such as he could be of benefit at any time.
Eamon sighed. The Knights would go to Argan. The Dragon knew best.
Closing the shutters, Eamon left his room and made his way to the main hall of the inn. Last night's celebration had died out shortly before morning, and although each knight was offered a room of his own, they had slept in the common areas among the townspeople. They were in various places around the hall, in various states of hilarity.
Daryth lay upon a bench against the wall, wrapped tightly in his cloak. He was barely visible, the magical properties of his wrapping having partially concealed him. Brynn sat at one of the tables, head down, mug of ale still clutched in his right hand. Azim was face down on a plush sofa in one corner, his left hand hanging to the floor, his mouth open and snoring loudly. Wrothgaar and Angen sat propped up against one another in the corner, mugs of ale between their legs. Angen's head lay on Wrothgaar's shoulder, and the Northman's arm rested gently over Angen's neck.
Eamon chuckled, seeing the humor in a group of honorable and fierce knights passing out so care free and in such ironic fashion. He knew that Azim had shunned ale his whole life, but had enjoyed it at last night's festivities. The native of Khem had truly let himself loose, showing that in addition to being a proud and stoic warrior for truth, he had the ability to enjoy the simple things.
Daryth's behavior was a complete contrast as well. His previous life as a Ranger under the command of Kuros required sharp senses, quick reaction time, and the utmost stealth. Surely his former captain would not approve.
"You were dreaming," a voice suddenly said behind him, startling him.
He turned to see Farouk resting beside Brynn at the table.
"I see Jodocus has taught you bad habits," Eamon said, referring to Farouk's sudden appearance.
Farouk laughed. "I should tell you that Jodocus finds it amusing," he said. "He was right."
Farouk stood, clasping Eamon's hand. The Prince smiled; glad to see the
fledgling Druid.
"You knew I was dreaming?" Eamon asked.
"Yes," Farouk replied, sitting back down on the bench. "Your dream was shown to me while I slept. I saw it through your eyes. I felt your emotions; your confusion, your curiosity."
"Then you know what question lies in my mind," Eamon said, matter-of-factly.
Farouk nodded. "Something about the last knight was always different, and you can't place it."
"Right. But what do you think it means?"
"It could be that your sixth knight, and all the others before him, was not human."
Eamon furrowed his brow. "I know of no other race that would have the capability to become a knight," he said. "Other than the Druaga, there appear to be none other."
"In my short time as a Druid," Farouk began, "I have learned to communicate with the Earth as a whole. I have seen many other sentient creatures whose existence is only rumor in the eyes of mortals. The Druaga are not alone."
"But from the outside, the sixth knights always looked human," Eamon protested.
"This is true," Farouk agreed. "It is the only explanation I have, however. There is no reason to believe that the sixth knight would be from another culture. Wrothgaar and Azim are both from different countries."
"Then I am unsure," Eamon said. "Perhaps if I saw the Priests of Drakkar in their true forms, I would have an answer."
"Perhaps," Farouk said. "They were the first Knights of the Dragon. But from your dream, I can see that finding out the one knight's identity would remain a secret until the Dragon feels you are ready to know the truth. Until then, you need not worry about choosing incorrectly. When you meet the sixth knight, you will know."
Eamon nodded, accepting the truth of Farouk's words. "I have encountered many men deserving of knighthood," he said. "But I just never got the feeling I did with the others."
The Ascent (Book 2) Page 16