Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1)

by J Drew Brumbaugh

  Razgoth thought about his liege lord's words and a plan took shape. A smile crossed his face. “That's when Egog will be of service. A service I did not foresee.”

  Barlon sighed. “There are lots of things you don't foresee. Sometimes I wonder if you are a wizard at all.”

  “But sire,” choked Razgoth, “not all wizards are good at seeing the future.”

  “Obviously.”

  Chapter 12

  Gant and Jarlz ate a hearty meal with Abadis. The food was delicious even though Gant couldn’t identify anything on the table. It all seemed to be concoctions of ground and powdered vegetables, grains, and nuts. It was tastier than anything Gant could remember since his last meal at home. That reminded him of his mother and father. He wondered how they were and whether he would ever see them again.

  While they ate, Abadis and Uncle Jarlz talked lightly of past events and of recent happenings. Finally Abadis cleared the table and gave them each a sparkling, crystal glass containing a translucent violet liquid. The aroma was euphoric. The flavor even better.

  “So. Gant is to enter the competition?” started Abadis once they were all settled back around the table. “If Jarlz says you're ready, then I don't doubt it's true. I should warn you that Zeigone will be there to defend his crown. A nastier champion there has never been. Three times he's won and never left a man alive to fight another day. He's a scoundrel, a skillful one which makes him all the more dangerous.”

  “I'll wager Gant will show him a trick or two,” said Jarlz winking at Gant.

  “As for tricks, Zeigone has a few himself. He's won the last two titles by slashing his opponent's forearms. He uses a deft twist of the wrist that’s very effective. No one’s been able to defend against it and believe me they’ve tried.”

  “What about his weapons?” asked Sir Jarlz.

  “Two-handed broadsword, light armor, no shield. Both sword and armor have a bit of magic in them, or I’m a blind old man. Zeigone was born evil and has only gotten nastier. He must be stopped.”

  “How can I defeat him? My sword has no magic, nor my armor.”

  Jarlz glanced at Abadis. A fresh gleam sparkled in the old man’s eyes.

  “Gant,” said the wizard, winking secretively, “I must confess. I knew you would come, and in fact, knew your goal. Knowing Jarlz as I do, your training could be aimed at nothing else. So. . .” He rose and stepped lightly over to a small chest sitting unobtrusively next to a tall rack of powders, potions and books. Flipping open the lid he pulled out two silvery mail sleeves. “I wish it were more,” Abadis said with a sigh, cradling the shimmering sleeves. “I made them for you. It took almost a month, but worth it if you can stop Zeigone.”

  The wizard stepped over to Gant with the sleeves laid across his outstretched forearms. The tiny metallic links intertwined in a pattern too intricate to follow, so perfect that they appeared solid. The firelight flashed and reflected off them in lively prismatic splashes of color. Gant had never seen anything so masterfully crafted in his life. How could he accept such a gift from a total stranger? “Take them,” said Abadis. “They will only fit you.”

  “But, how can I repay you?”

  “It is I who repay old debts,” said Abadis and nodded to Jarlz.

  Gant reached out and reverently cradled the brilliant chain mail sleeves. A strange warmth rushed up his palms, through his arms and spread through his body. An irresistible urge to wear the sleeves swept over him. Recklessly he pulled them on.

  At first they felt awkward. They were too big, too vibrant, almost alive. Then they shrank, molding themselves to his forearms until they were like a second skin. The sensation faded and it was as if they weren't there at all. Gant had to concentrate to feel them. Every way he moved, they moved with him with an energy of their own. How much easier it would be to wield his sword, he thought.

  “Wear them against Zeigone. They will deflect his attacks at your forearms and give you the speed to counterattack. No matter what, don't let him see you wearing them before your combat has begun, least he devise some new methods you are not armed against,” warned Abadis sternly. “The others you fight, and there won't be many for Zeigone has scared off most men, will have little chance against you. Only Zeigone can test you and with these sleeves as a surprise, you can defeat him.

  “Lastly, cruel as it sounds, do not spare him. If he lives I see only more evil.”

  “Kill in cold blood?” Gant was horrified. “I won't do it.”

  “You must,” demanded Abadis.

  “Evil men know no silence but the grave,” broke in Jarlz. “And make no mistake, this Zeigone will kill you if he can. You will likely be forced to do him in first.

  “Abadis, you've done us a great service,” continued Jarlz, “for which Gant and I thank you. Our visit here has been more valuable than I had hoped. Gant will not betray your trust. He will dispatch Zeigone or I shall do it myself.”

  Abadis laid a gnarled hand on Jarlz' shoulder, “You know, old friend, that heroic deeds are for the young. Our time has passed. Be content to train those who carry on.”

  Jarlz nodded slowly. That over with, they all sat back around the table and sipped from refilled glasses. Talk turned to days past, old friendships, and the conversation carried long into the night. Gant sat quietly and listened. He wasn't going to kill Zeigone. If letting him live brought evil, then someone else would kill him later.

  Soon though, he found himself caught up in the stories Jarlz and Abadis shared. It reminded Gant of Uric at the castle. Tall tales, fun to listen to. And all the while he soaked up a newfound warmth from the magic sleeves.

  #

  The next morning dawned clear and calm. The sun shone through scattered clouds. It was still cool, but comfortable for walking. Abadis fed them well before they left. Once more he wished Gant luck against Zeigone and reminded him to hide the sleeves until the last minute. And with that Gant and Jarlz started down the road to Devonshield.

  Eventually they reached Devonshield. It was a quaint town built in the middle of a great forest. The buildings were almost exclusively wood. The lone exception was the king’s towering stone castle. The shops were small and pushed together along narrow streets. The population swelled with the throngs who arrived for the games. Tents were packed together around the wide meadow that comprised the tournament field. Jarlz shed his distinctive armor and kept his face hidden to avoid being recognized, and Gant and Jarlz mingled with the crowds passing unnoticed into Devonshield.

  Once in town Jarlz insisted they stay out of sight so that the other competitors would wonder who Gant was. Surprise could be the deciding factor, Jarlz explained and he planned to use it to their advantage. Jarlz knew an old stable master who put them up where they wouldn't be bothered and then he went alone to enter Gant's name in the competition so that up to the first match no one had yet seen Gant.

  The next day was clear, sunny and a bit cool. When they reached the tournament site, Gant surveyed the vast expanse of meadow that served as the battlefield. He marveled at the number of tents surrounding the field sprouting dozens of colorful banners. At the end of the meadow, central to the combat area was the raised platform and tent of the King of Devonshield.

  The splendor and majesty overwhelmed Gant. There was nothing like it in Netherdorf. King Tirmus forbid fighting for sport. For a moment Gant was filled with doubts. He’d only ever fought unskilled thugs.

  “Are you sure I’m ready for this?” he asked his uncle.

  Jarlz’ reassuring pat on the back did little to calm Gant.

  The draw for opponents put Gant in the opposite division from Zeigone. A good sign, his uncle assured Gant. There were only eight competitors registered. In the first match of the day, a wiry man named Evan bested a blocky man known simply as Tee by dodging, parrying and counter strokes. It was not a short match and Gant studied both men knowing that if he won his first match then the winner would be his next opponent.

  The next match pitted Zeigone again
st the king’s own entry, Sir Harold. Gant watched as the valiant knight attempted to avoid Zeigone’s deadly slashes to the wrists and forearms, and failed. Bloody, and hardly able to hold his sword, Zeigone dispatched him with a thrust to the neck. Sir Harold died on the field.

  Gant was up next. He swallowed back his fear and studied his first opponent. He was a huge bulk of a man named Brax. He carried a two-handed sword that matched his size. The king sounded the beginning and the two combatants advanced across the field. As they closed with each other, Brax pulled back his sword for a massive strike. Gant readied for it. Brax swung. Gant pushed it aside and countered with a cut to the head. Brax staggered for a moment, righted himself and swung again. Gant dodged it and swatted Brax on the side of the helm again. Before the bigger man could react, Gant hit him again, this time with the flat of the blade. Brax’s head snapped back and Gant darted in and hit him with the pommel under the chin. Brax sank to his knees and fell forward. Gant sighed with relief, thankful it had been quick. Better yet, Brax soon would be fine.

  The first round ended with a match between Argoll and Karnon. Gant barely paid attention, instead planning his strategy against Evan. It wouldn’t be anything like his battle with Brax.

  Karnon won and rested while Gant took on Evan. This time, Gant was up against a polished swordsman who was as quick as Gant and nearly as skilled. Back and forth they went, slash and parry, cut and counter. In the end, Evan yielded, totally worn out from two long drawn out contests. Gant was thankful he’d defeated Brax quickly.

  While Gant rested, Zeigone took care of Karnon, slashing him to pieces until the loss of blood caused him to falter. Zeigone finished him with a cutting stroke to the neck.

  The crowd loved a winner and after his first match, they cheered Gant even as they cheered Zeigone for his indefensible slashing attacks. Expectantly, the crowd waited as the two favorites worked their way toward the inevitable confrontation. Betting ran heavy on them both.

  Finally it was time for the championship match. Behind the grandstand, Gant slipped on the magic sleeves and walked nervously out onto the field. He stopped at his designated spot. Across the way, Zeigone strode to his spot. The crowd quieted, breathlessly silent in anticipation. In his viewing stand the King of Devonshield stood up and paused at the railing, poised to signal the beginning of the final contest.

  Gant stood on the grassy field studying his opponent. He hefted his sword in one hand and balanced his shield in the other. The magic sleeves warmed his forearms. Despite his earlier victories, Gant was less than confident. Not that he feared dying. It was more about letting down his uncle and Abadis. What if he failed?

  Zeigone stared back haughtily, dripping confidence. His dark beard bristled from under his open faceplate; his heavy black helm seemed to suck the light from the air. The strange white, eye-shaped symbol on his breastplate stared hypnotically at Gant.

  Now the king walked with measured steps to the large brass gong hanging on the front rail. With a slight rap he signaled for the contest to begin.

  “Let the battle for the champion of the Devonshield Games begin,” he said hoarsely and quickly returned to his seat.

  Zeigone hefted his two-handed sword and strode boldly toward Gant. The mysterious white-eye emblem on his armor captivated Gant, forcing his attention to it. As Zeigone stalked closer, his sword cocked for the attack, Gant remained spellbound, his sword hanging at his side.

  In an instant, Zeigone was within striking distance. A hush fell on the crowd. In the last possible moment, Gant snapped out of it and realized Zeigone was too close. Too late to wonder how he'd been tricked, Gant leaped backward, barely dodging Zeigone's first stroke. Gant circled to his right, raising his sword in defense. Zeigone pressed his advantage, lashing out again. Gant parried. Zeigone twisted at the last instant using the same ruse that had worked on the others. His sword flashed past the parry to slash at Gant’s exposed forearms. There was an audible clang as metal slammed into metal and a blinding flash as the magic in Zeigone’s sword clashed with the magic in the sleeves.

  The stands erupted in a loud groan. Zeigone was already twisting for another slash when Gant's counterstroke caught him on the side of the helm.

  Zeigone’s head snapped back, his sword hand drooped. Gant rushed in with a straight thrust. Zeigone faltered only for an instant and blocked it. He countered with another twisting blow at Gant's forearms. Again there was the ring of metal and a flash of light. Gant ignored the attack, trusting the sleeves, and stabbed straight in. His sword point pinged heavily on Zeigone's breastplate, but the metal held and only a small dent showed that a hit had been scored. Zeigone slashed Gant a third time across the forearms and got a vicious backhand on the left shoulder for his trouble.

  The two men slid away from each other, circling warily. Zeigone’s confident air was gone replaced by a grim look of determination. Gant grew bolder sure that Abadis’ gift would ward off Zeigone's favorite attacks. For each slash across the forearms, Gant dealt a smashing blow to Zeigone’s black armor. Yet there was power in that armor and the best Gant could manage was a series of small dents.

  Finally, Zeigone rushed in with another slash at the forearms. Gant ignored it and attacked. Too late. It was a fake. Zeigone twisted at the last minute just as he had done all day only this time he redirected his attack at Gant's head. It landed square on Gant's helm. The steel parted. The blade gashed an ugly wound along the side of Gant's head. A spurt of warm blood blurred one eye and an explosion of pain roared through him. Gant stumbled back. Zeigone dashed in. He stabbed at Gant’s ribs. Gant blocked with his shield. Zeigone followed with a lightning two-handed swing at the head. Desperately, Gant parried, partially deflecting the blow. Before he could recover, a second slash rent Gant’s helm.

  Gant lurched backwards, staggered and went down on one knee. His mind whirled, bees buzzed in his brain. Zeigone snickered and moved in for the finishing strike, a two-handed, overhand blow.

  But he savored the moment an instant too long. Through the haze, Gant saw the opening and his reflexes responded. Gant whisked the deathblow aside, and counterattacked in a blur of motion. His sword caught Zeigone at the joint between helm and body armor. A sickening, rending sound split the air. A gush of red spewed over the front of the black breastplate. Gant watched from a dazed stupor. The great sword slipped from Zeigone’s hand and fell harmlessly to the ground. Zeigone tottered and fell with a crash of metal.

  Pages rushed to remove the fallen man’s helm and then bustled his body away to the medicine tent. Gant struggled to his feet. Statue-like he watched them clear the field. The taste of death gagged him. He turned to leave. He needed a place to retch. But arms were around him. Jarlz first, followed by the crowd. They shoved and jostled him to the king’s stand.

  Hardly able to stand, Gant stared up at the king, wobbling unsteadily.

  “Oh Gant of the Ironlimbs,” began the king, a smile on his thin lips, “Champion today. Come forward and claim your prize.”

  The king held up a small leather sack that clinked with gold coins.

  “Well, ‘Ironlimb,’” said Jarlz through a broad smile, clutching Gant around the shoulder to steady him, “I told you you were ready.”

  Gant sagged against his uncle. Someone lifted the sword from his stiff fingers. With Jarlz for support, Gant stumbled from the field, his body shaking from both fatigue and guilt. His uncle helped him to the combatants’ tent and pulled off Gant’s armor. A page brought warm water and rubbed Gant’s aching muscles. A doctor followed the page and cleansed Gant’s wounds. The head wounds caused considerable concern and the doctor suggested that Gant be taken someplace quiet to rest. With assurances from Jarlz, the doctor left.

  Finally, once Gant had on clean clothes, Jarlz helped him to Jarlz’ favorite inn. Amidst a torrent of well-wishers Jarlz rented a room upstairs near the back where they could have a semblance of quiet. It was all Gant could do to climb the stairs and trudge to the end of the hall. The day’s events
seemed like a dream. He flopped into bed without removing his clothes and immediately fell into a stupor-like sleep.

  Chapter 13

  The next morning a soft tap at the door woke Gant. He rubbed his eyes, stretched stiff shoulder muscles, and rolled from the straw-filled mattress. He felt his head and was surprised there was no ugly wound.

  “Who's there?”

  “Uric.”

  The sage is always near, thought Gant, and opened the door. Uric entered carrying a huge cloth sack bulging with lumpy objects. Today his amethyst robes hung from his shoulders wrinkled and dusty. Gant thought he looked as if he'd been rummaging in a closet.

  Uric dropped the bag on the floor with a metallic thud.

  Gant looked at the sack. Whatever it was it couldn’t be that important. “How’s Chamz?” he asked.

  “Chamz is fine. Right now it's more important for you to know the truth,” said Uric, straightening. “You are the one in the prophecy, the prophecy written by your great-great-great grandfather, Bartholomew. He was the greatest practitioner of magic that has ever been, unless you count the ancients at Tirumfall, though that was so long ago no one can separate truth and legend.”

  Uric paused, muttered, “But I digress.” And then continued, “In Bartholomew's time, a demon lord named Varg ruled the dark elves. Varg had taken female slaves from the fair elves and from them he fathered the race of dark elves. He forced them to perform evil at his command. By chance, Bartholomew met and fell in love with the dark elf queen, Celestina. For a time they met in secret using Bartholomew’s powerful magic to shield them from Varg’s spies, cloaking them in invisibility. Eventually, through research in ancient magical tomes, Bartholomew gained sufficient knowledge to exile Varg back to the realms of darkness.