Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1)

by J Drew Brumbaugh

The wind made talking difficult and so the threesome tramped on in silence. It wasn’t long before Gant’s armor started to rub his chest raw under his light shirt. He endured it quietly for as long as he could.

  Finally, he said, “Uncle Jarlz, this armor is cutting into me. Can't I take it off at least until we reach Devonshield?”

  Jarlz chuckled to himself. “All the more reason to keep it on. That armor must become a part of you, as natural to wear as your pants. Otherwise it will hinder you in battle instead of protect. Better get used to it.”

  “Hey,” said Chamz, a mischievous smile on his face, “if you don't want it, I'll take it.”

  “No doubt,” said Jarlz, “but Gant is the one entering the games. Maybe you can have a go at it next year.”

  “Really? Do you think I’d be ready?”

  “Probably as long as Gant doesn’t decide to enter again.”

  “And Gant can sponsor me after he wins this year.”

  Gant said nothing. It was presumptuous to talk of winning when he'd never fought anyone except his uncle and his friend. And that was just practice. No, the tournament was going to be a lot different.

  The trio continued steadily until midday when Jarlz pointed out a glade of young oak trees ringing an opening in the forest. A well-used fire pit sat in the middle of the clearing. Around it the trees formed a thick barrier and Gant couldn't see more than a few feet into the forest. At least the trees cut off the wind.

  “I'll make a fire,” said Chamz.

  “Don't bother,” said Jarlz. “We won't be staying long.”

  Gant slumped down on his pack. His legs were tired. More than that, he was cold through to his bones. “What's the hurry, Uncle?” he asked.

  “I've a spot in mind for our evening camp and we are still a long way from it. There’s no place worth staying between here and there so we need to keep moving.”

  Jarlz tied his horse to a sapling. Chamz sat down and started rummaging in his pack when the first volley of crossbow bolts struck. One hit Chamz in the chest, another deflected off Jarlz’ mail shirt, another stuck in Gant's pack.

  In one smooth motion, Jarlz pulled his sword, dashed to his horse and yanked his shield off the horse’s back. Gant rolled over drawing his sword. Chamz fell backward blood flowing from his wound. He groaned and lay still.

  A violent rage swept over Gant. He leaped up and dashed toward the unseen shooters. Jarlz advanced more cautiously, his shield up. Three more bolts flashed toward Gant. One went wide, one glanced off Gant's mailed sleeve, the third stuck in his breastplate just below the floating ribs. The tip poked through the layer of metal and leather and dug into Gant’s skin.

  “After them,” shouted Jarlz, and sprinted headlong toward the attackers.

  Gant grabbed the crossbow bolt lodged in his armor and, with a twist and tug, pulled it free. Tossing it aside, he ran forward and shouted “What about Chamz?”

  “We'll tend to him after we’ve dealt with them,” said Jarlz.

  Jarlz disappeared into the thicket, forcing his way through the perimeter of oak saplings. He plunged in among the widely spaced trees of the older forest. Gant followed close behind using the path that his uncle had wedged open.

  Another volley of iron-tipped bolts zipped at Gant. This time the bolts glanced off trees. Gant lunged ahead.

  Moments later, Jarlz and Gant broke into a clearing in time to see three men on horses gallop away southward. In an instant, they were gone. Gant recognized one of them. Talth! He had finally made good on his vow of revenge.

  “No use chasing them now,” said Jarlz. “Let's get back to Chamz.”

  They hurried back to the campsite. As they ran, Gant said, “One of them was Talth. I tangled with him the first day we came to Blasseldune.”

  “Just like that coward to attack from ambush. We'll deal with him later.”

  Back at camp they found Chamz in a pool of blood. Gant fought back tears.

  Jarlz leaned down, lightly touching the bolt in Chamz' chest. “I don't know if I should pull it out or leave it in. If only Uric was here.”

  Gant knelt beside his fallen friend. “I should have given him the armor,” he muttered.

  Bent over as he was, Gant didn't see Uric enter the clearing.

  “Did someone call my name?” asked Uric, his soft voice filled with a strange power that gave Gant shivers. The sage stood tall, majestic in his amethyst robes. His eyes were two pools of green that hid many secrets.

  Jarlz jumped up his hand going to his sword.

  “No need for that,” said Uric. “I reached Blasseldune only this day looking for you. They told me you'd left for the games at Devonshield. I was worried that you weren't going to get there in time and so I followed up the north road.”

  “Can you do anything for Chamz?” asked Gant.

  “Let me see,” said Uric, bending down for a closer look. “He's taken a bad shot but I think I can put him right again.”

  Gant stepped back to give the sage room. “Can I get anything?”

  “No,” said Uric. “I have what I need in my cloak.”

  Uric wrapped his hand around the shaft of the crossbow bolt and eased it out. It popped out like a cork from a champagne bottle, blood spurting freely. Quickly, Uric placed a dressing of clean white cloth over the wound and pressed firmly. “Here,” he said to Gant, “hold this in place while I prepare some medicine.”

  Gant knelt next to Chamz. His friend's face was ash gray, his breathing shallow. “You're going to be all right,” Gant whispered as he placed his hand over the dressing and held it.

  Uric retrieved a couple of bottles from pockets concealed within his robes along with another pad of soft cloth. For the next few minutes the sage mixed liquids from this bottle and that and blotted the cloth with the result.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “Let me in there.”

  Gant moved back.

  Uric kneeled down, replacing the bloody dressing with the medicine soaked pad. He mumbled a few words that Gant couldn't quite make out, and then stood up. The medicine-soaked dressing stuck to Chamz.

  “Now what?” asked Jarlz.

  “I've got to get him back to Hammond House, a warm bed and some rest.”

  “Is he going to be all right?” asked Gant.

  “He'll be okay. But it will take time.” Uric's smile was reassuring.

  “Okay, then let's get going,” said Gant. “I'll help carry him.”

  “No,” said Uric. “You and Jarlz must go on to the games. I'll see to Chamz.”

  “Don't worry, Gant,” said Jarlz, “Uric will see that nothing happens to Chamz.”

  Gant's mind swirled. “He's my friend. I can't just leave him.”

  Uric put a hand on Gant's shoulder. “Gant, you must go to Devonshield. Chamz will be fine. I'll send him north as soon as he's well enough to travel.”

  Gant looked at his uncle for reassurance.

  Jarlz nodded. “We need to go. And so does Uric.”

  “Okay,” said Gant. He reached out, touched Chamz on the arm. “Get well,” he said.

  Jarlz untied his horse, slung his shield over the saddle and started toward the road. Uric lifted Chamz in his arms. Gant took one last look at his friend, shouldered his pack and followed his uncle. At the road, Uric turned south toward Blasseldune. Gant and Jarlz went north. Before he’d gone far, Gant looked back. The road was already empty as far as he could see. Uric must indeed be in a hurry.

  Chapter 10

  Gant and his uncle marched steadily all afternoon. Silently Gant worried about Chamz. As the day faded into dusk, a light mist began to fall. Jarlz guided Gant through the trees to the mouth of a shallow cave about a hundred yards from the road. Jarlz tethered his horse nearby and within a few minutes had a glowing fire perched in the cave opening. They sat, backs to the wall, in the dry cave. The fire warmed their spirits as well as their bones.

  “How did you know about this cave?” asked Gant as the fire loosened his tongue.

  “I
found it years ago. An ambush drove me off the road and good luck led me through the trees to this hillside. The cave gave me a perfect fortress. Only one of the rogues could attack me at a time and the rabble that they were left them no match for me one-on-one. Several of the biggest fell before they got the idea they'd rather look for easier prey.”

  “Some people are born lucky,” said Gant rubbing his hands in front of the fire.

  Jarlz pulled a few pieces of firewood from a cache under a pile of stones and tossed them on the fire. “Sometimes you need a bit of luck,” he said. “Sometimes you make your own luck. In the morning we'll restock the firewood.”

  He poked the hot coals with a long stick and continued, “Tomorrow night we'll sleep better. I know a wizard who lives within walking distance. Warm house, fine beds, and best of all, he'll know who to watch out for at the games.”

  “Good,” said Gant and let the fire's warmth ease the tightness in his muscles. “Do you think Chamz is okay? It was a long way back to Blasseldune. It seems impossible for Uric to get Chamz there in time.”

  Jarlz smiled. “Don't worry about Chamz. Uric has his ways. Next time you see Chamz, he'll be fit as ever.”

  Gant still didn't see how, but his uncle’s reassuring words put Gant temporarily at ease. His thoughts turned to his father. How was he doing in the smithy without Gant? He sat up. “Uncle, do you think my father is angry at me? I couldn't stand by and let Wendler do what he was about to do, noble or not.”

  “Gant,” said Jarlz, putting one hand on Gant's shoulder, “your father loves you very much. He knows you did what’s right. But he can’t change the law. Often I think he felt inadequate marrying a noblewoman. But my sister loves your father and has never regretted the marriage. Somehow this will all work out.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Gant.

  Jarlz slapped him on the back. “Sleep now. I'll take the first watch.”

  “Okay,” yawned Gant, “Wake me for my turn.”

  Jarlz nodded. Gant rolled over in his bedroll, his mind filled with questions about his father and mother and what was a real wizard like. And how could Uric just show up in the woods when Chamz was shot? Maybe Uric was a wizard. He fell asleep wondering.

  #

  Jarlz was still sitting in front of the fire like a fury statue when the morning sun woke Gant.

  “Jarlz!” barked Gant.

  “What?” Jarlz's head snapped around.

  “You didn't wake me.”

  “Of course not. You needed your rest and I'm used to standing watch by myself. Now get up. It's time to be moving.”

  They wolfed down a cold breakfast bundled in their furs while the north wind whipped around the cave mouth. The small fire barely fought off the chill. Gant's feet were numb by the time they were ready to start the day's trek. He stamped heavily to bring them back to life.

  They started off, keeping a fast pace all day. Except for bends in the road they walked straight into the wind. They pulled their furs around their faces and ears until only their eyes peeked out through slits. Gray clouds blotted out the sky making everything dull and lifeless. Occasionally a streak of sunlight burst through to lighten their mood. Neither of them cared to talk and they trudged on silently. Even lunch was on the move.

  The quick pace not only kept them warm but also got them to their destination early. The sun was well above the horizon when Jarlz pointed to a narrow footpath leading off the road. They turned in and followed it until, through an opening in a wall of tall pines, Gant saw a stout log cabin. Amazingly, the windows were wide open. Flowers bloomed in well-tended beds up against the house.

  Jarlz stopped at the edge of the ring of pine trees. Gant stopped behind him and only then noticed a shimmering wall that blocked their path.

  Jarlz planted both feet, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Abadis.” After a moment's pause he yelled louder. “Sir Jarlz of the Whispering Blade wishes to visit.”

  Whispering Blade, wondered Gant. What was that about? Must be another tale he hadn’t heard. He made a mental note to ask about it the first chance he got. Just then a bearded face, wrinkled heavily around eyes that glowed, peered out one of the windows.

  “Ah, Sir Jarlz, ‘tis you. And with a young man. No doubt your nephew and new apprentice. Enter as you wish.”

  The old man mouthed a string of words that were strange to Gant and the shimmering wall faded. Jarlz stepped through with Gant close on his heels.

  Once inside, the translucent barrier reappeared behind them. Gant noted that the air was warm, like a summer day. Jarlz dropped the lead line to his horse and the big chestnut mare lowered her head to taste the tender grass. Jarlz pulled off his furs and heavy breastplate and held them out at arm's length. Miraculously, a hand-shaped tree limb swayed down and scooped them up. The limb and its load disappeared back into the pine leaving no sign of the garments. Gant stepped back bewildered, a small knot growing in his gut.

  Jarlz chuckled, motioned to the trees and said, “These are his servants. Enchanted to receive guests. They'll hold your bulky gear until we depart.”

  “But. . . it's warm, and. . .” Gant waved his hand around trying to formulate all the questions he had.

  “Don't worry,” laughed Jarlz, “Abadis’ magic is powerful enough to control everything around this house, weather included. Come on, get your things off, lad, and let's get inside.”

  Gant obeyed. Warily he eyed the bough that took his furs and breastplate. And then the two men walked to the door.

  The door opened as they approached. Inside, the main room was warm and cheery despite a cluttered of jars, boxes, sacks, bowls, and other paraphernalia. Shelves lined every wall and except for a small table with stools there was no furniture. The roaring fire in the fireplace on the far wall put a golden glow on everything. The old man Gant had seen at the window stood near the center of the room wrapped in dark robes, arms folded across his chest.

  “Sir Jarlz,” he said with a smile. “It's been long since we sat together. Welcome.” He opened his arms and glided over to Jarlz, hugging him as a father would a son. Then turning to Gant, “And this must be the nephew you're always talking about. Grown up, is he?”

  “Yes, this is Gant, my sister's son and the son of my sword maker, her husband. A fine man he's grown into wouldn't you say?”

  Gant bowed stiffly from the waist not sure what the proper greeting for a wizard was. He said, “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  Jarlz turned back to Abadis. “Gant and I are going to Devonshield. Gant is entering. What can you tell us about other entrants?”

  “There is time for serious talk later. First, let us dine. Surely you must be hungry from your long walk. I'm hungry myself and I hate to talk of important matters on an empty stomach.”

  Chapter 11

  Meanwhile, Barlon Gorth sat at his table in the Mountain Castle, eating a meal of roast meat, crusty bread and an endless supply of ale. His wizard, Razgoth, sat with him.

  “My Lord, are you certain we shall have the help of the craftsmen we capture?” asked Razgoth running his hand through his disheveled hair.

  “Razgoth, you worry too much. We have ways to ensure they will give you all the help you need. The timeline has only moved up a little.” Barlon worried that his masterstroke would be too late and not catch Netherdorf in turmoil. Already reports hinted that the nobles were less interested in the fate of the commoner, Gant, and more concerned about Barlon's growing armies. A unified enemy was not good. Perhaps his spies would yet be able to stir the pot a bit before the attack.

  At that moment, Shalmuthe, Barlon's stocky master spy rushed in, stopped behind a chair, and stood motionless waiting for his ruler to speak.

  “I hope you bring me good news,” said Barlon between chewing. “Like maybe the Netherdorf nobles are going to revolt against their king.”

  “No. Nothing so important.” His left hand went to the scar across his left cheek, rubbing it unconsciously. “I thought you'd
want to know that our attempts to intercept Gant on his way to Devonshield failed.”

  Razgoth jumped up. “Failed. I told you Gant would be trouble.”

  Barlon waved Razgoth back into his seat. “Nothing has happened. So he goes to Devonshield. Until he wins there, it proves nothing. But,” Barlon turned back to Shalmuthe, “how did you fail? I thought you had it all planned.”

  “Talth turned out to be less efficient in deed than in word. They did ambush Gant, as agreed, but shot only Gant's insignificant friend and when they saw Sir Jarlz, they turned and fled.”

  Barlon scowled. “Then Sir Jarlz is not in Netherdorf.”

  “True, Sire. He has gone with Gant to Devonshield.”

  Barlon rubbed his chin for a moment, thinking. “All is not lost. We may have to postpone our attack until after Devonshield.”

  “How's that, my Lord?” asked Razgoth.

  “Fool. Capturing Netherdorf without capturing Sir Jarlz ruins the plan and the amulet becomes worthless. We’ll wait until he returns. In the meantime, Shalmuthe, what about Talth?”

  “I think he should be eliminated,” growled the master spy. “Failure is not acceptable.”

  “Failure is not acceptable. Cowardice even less. We've no use for gutless vermin. See that he's taught a permanent lesson that others will not miss.”

  “Consider it done.” Shalmuthe turned to go.

  “Make sure you let me know when Sir Jarlz returns to Netherdorf.”

  “And make sure we know the results of Devonshield,” added Razgoth.

  Shalmuthe waved over his shoulder without turning and hurried off.

  Razgoth leaned forward in his chair, took a drink of water. “Sire,” he began, “what shall we do if Gant wins Devonshield?”

  Barlon shook his head. “You are concerned about the prophecy. Are you familiar with the details?”

  “I’ve heard it often enough.”

  “Let me refresh your memory. First a descendant of Bartholomew must win at Devonshield. After which he is supposed to receive a sword powerful enough to kill Varg. I’m guessing the dark elves have it hidden somewhere. We know Gant is such a descendant, so if he wins, he still must get this magic sword. If you think about it, the sword he carries is a nice piece of work but it is hardly the kind of weapon that would concern Varg. No, for now I don’t see any reason to worry. We’ll keep track of Gant and if he wins and suddenly has a new sword, then we will disarm him or kill him.”