Instinctively, he rolled aside, dodging for the moment the growing numbers of pursuers. His head ached fiercely. He couldn’t concentrate. All around him, claws flashed, reaching to carve up his flesh. His spells were a jumble inside his brain. One mistake and he’d kill himself with a failed spell. He must think clearly or die.
Just when it seemed he could not escape, his mind grasp the only spell it seemed capable of remembering. It was a quick, simple distance translation that could take him outside the castle. He snapped off the verse and the simple finger motions, and just as the talons came down to rend him, he was gone.
For a moment, Razgoth lay on the cobblestone street where he appeared. He knew it wasn’t safe and with supreme effort, he dragged his battered body to a hiding place beneath some trash piled haphazardly against a nearby building.
Chapter 36
Abadis wrinkled his nose at the disgusting mixture of mashed vegetables, gravy and beef that was supposed to pass for stew. He bit into the dried bread crust and considered his miserable existence. Naked, locked in a damp cell. He remembered the dogs, remembered the jailor, but he could not remember how he got there in the first place.
He pushed the bread around in the goo, let it soften, and then ate the dripping chunk. Lousy, he thought. Now and then glimpses of his life whisked through his mind only to slip away like the mist that disappears before the morning sun.
He had sopped up about half the gravy when he heard the keys clink in the lock at the end of the corridor. The hallway door opened and the squat jailer and his two brutish mastiffs entered.
The jailor peered in through Abadis’ cell bars and grunted. “Not done yet?”
Abadis stared back blankly.
“Too bad. Give me the dish. I ain’t comin’ back down here tonight.”
Tonight? Days and nights were passing without a clue. How long had he been locked up?
“How long have I been here?” Abadis asked, only half expecting an answer.
“What d’you care? You and the dragon ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til His Majesty returns.”
Abadis slid the metal dish under the door. Dragon! Lost memories rushed back. Uric. Yes, that was why he’d come here. Uric was trapped here and Abadis had come to free him. Suddenly Abadis was filled with dread. What a fool he had been, overlooking the possibility that there would be guard dogs whose sense of smell would not be fooled by a simple invisibility spell. How long had he been a prisoner? How long had Barlon been free to make war unchecked? Worse, would Gant still be waiting for him at Sylvia’s?
By now the jailor had retrieved the dish, checked Abadis’ water bucket and left. Abadis stared out into the hall and noticed his robes and undergarments heaped in a pile outside the cell. He needed what was in that robe.
Several spells came to mind that required things in the pockets of his robes. But first he had to get out of the cell. Without his robe spells couldn’t be anything complex. He strained his memory, back to his earliest days as an apprentice. Yes, there were spells requiring little or nothing except a word and a gesture, but he needed something to get him out of the cell, not something to make a stone laugh, or silence a fly’s buzzing.
He sorted through the seldom-used beginner’s spells one by one. Finally he came to one that had promise. Searching the cell for but a moment yielded the pinch of dust required. Then carefully, straining to remember each word exactly correct, each gesture, he recited the spell.
It was a distance translation, good for traveling a few yards. He only needed to move a few feet. He recited the spell and his body dispersed into energy, slipped through the iron bars and reformed outside.
Abadis checked his hands and feet, his bony legs, his scrawny arms. He was all there and functioning. By the gods, he thought. I’m lucky I remembered it right. He dressed quickly. Several of his pockets had emptied their contents onto the floor. He carefully returned everything to their correct locations.
Picking up a small mirror, he paused, gazing at his reflection. “Damn,” he muttered, grasping his left ear where the ear lobe should have been. “I didn’t quite get it exact after all.”
Having no time to consider the consequences, Abadis secured the proper powders and dusts and stepped over in front of Uric. “I’ll have you out of there soon,” he whispered.
And then Abadis began the complex spell to release Uric. After nearly half an hour of exact recitation and complex motions with fingers, hands and arms, Abadis produced a globe of golden energy that hovered between him and the gigantic dragon’s head.
A wave of his hands sent the globe gently drifting into the sphere surrounding Uric. Energies clashed. The golden sphere nibbled away at the magic globe that held Uric trapped, like ants stripping a carcass. As Abadis’ sphere moved slowly forward engulfing the dragon, the giant reptile’s eyes cleared, then his forelimbs twitched and flexed, and finally the tip of his tail returned to life.
Uric took a deep breath, blinked and stepped cautiously into the room, his massive body crammed into the tight quarters.
“Abadis, what are you doing here? Where is everyone?” asked Uric, looking around the room, a puzzled expression on his face. “Where are we?”
“Barlon's Mountain Castle. You were caught in a time trap, and I’ve been stuck in prison. Barlon’s called forth Varg and who knows what else by now.”
Uric’s body began to shimmer and twist, shrinking and distorting until within a moment, the amethyst robed sage stood in its place.
“How do you do that?” asked Abadis. “It’s a spell I’d like to know.”
“It is no spell,” said Uric. “Dragons have some magic that is innate in our nature. Changing shapes is one. But if Varg has been recalled then we’ve already lost too much time. We need to be on our way.”
“To my place,” said Abadis.
They linked hands and Abadis cast the spell for travel. Instantly they disappeared from Barlon’s dungeon, traveled down the magical corridor in a plane were distance did not exist and reappeared in Abadis’ home.
“Wait a minute, I’m overdue on a pickup.”
Again Abadis completed the spell and was gone. Moments later he returned, a frown crinkling his face and accentuating the wrinkles.
“Something wrong?” asked Uric as soon as Abadis reappeared.
“Yes. Gant left Sylvia’s several days ago, bound here. He and Zandinar should be here by now.”
“Zandinar?”
“Yes, do you know him? I’ve seen him a few times over the years, sometimes years apart, and he never seems to age. He’s always seeking his destiny.”
“I know something of him,” said Uric, a far-away look in his eyes, “but I wonder what part he will play in this.” He refocused on Abadis. “What were they doing at Sylvia’s?”
“It’s a long story. They were supposed to wait there for me. For some reason they didn’t, and worse, they left in the company of the emperor and a handful of his guards. We’ll have to find them. If the emperor is captured by Barlon’s agents it will not be good.”
Uric held up a confused hand, shaking his head. “Before we run off, I think you’d better tell me what has happened while I was trapped.”
“You’re right.” Abadis related all that he knew while Uric listened silently.
“The world is changing rapidly,” said Uric. “I think we should hurry to Blasseldune and see if our young friends made it that far.”
“Agreed,” said Abadis. “Unfortunately, I don’t know anyplace there well enough to take us by spell.”
“I do,” said Uric and this time it was the dragon that voiced the words for the spell and transferred them to Blasseldune.
#
Bitterly disappointed, Abadis and Uric returned to the wizard’s house. Despite the picturesque setting, gloom settled in. After discreetly questioning every trustworthy man either of them knew in Blasseldune, the only possible conclusion they could come up with was that Gant had never reached the city.
“They must hav
e been attacked on the road,” suggested Uric, now seated stiff-backed on a stool.
“Attacked maybe, but not stopped. Who could defeat Gant in his armor? No brigands that I know.”
“Not brigands, but what of magic? Even Razgoth, who is far from a master, trapped me. And what of the Dark Elves? Both the miller and two of the fur traders said they’d seen several of them in Blasseldune. Are they in league with their old master, Varg?”
Abadis scratched his beard. “I cannot believe the elves would join Varg. Sarona fears Varg as much as any. And she more than anyone would realize Gant’s value as Bartholomew's heir.”
Uric considered that and then said, “Too bad her mother didn’t live a bit longer. Perhaps we should visit the elves. Sarona may have a hand in this, and if she doesn’t already, she should. Her armies will be needed, since it looks unlikely that men will align to stop Gorth.”
“Yes, Sarona and the Dark Elves are an important force. Let’s not waste time. Do you know a spot well enough to transfer to? I used to but I haven’t been there in a long time and probably wouldn’t get it right."
“No, the closest I can go is Netherdorf, and I don’t really want to go there. We’ll have to fly.”
Without waiting, Uric was out in the yard, his body shimmering and twisting, changing into his massive reptilian self. Without a word, Abadis climbed on his back. The wizard settled into a comfortable spot between the multiple ridges of golden scales and hung on. With a rush of wind, Uric was airborne and they were on their way to the Caverns of Darkness, home of the Dark Elves.
#
Gant sat up and returned Valorius to her scabbard. Despite the spear at his throat, he felt no fear for himself. It was the others who were vulnerable. Gant rubbed his eyes with the backs of his knuckles and studied his captors. Even in the faint glow from the fire’s coals, he knew they were a Dark Elf patrol. Their slit eyes, swept-back pointed ears and slender, shorter stature were unmistakable.
Zandinar, Pris and the others scrambled to their feet, cautious of the spear points bristling around them. Gant got slowly to his feet, scrutinizing the leader who was taller than the others, though barely to Gant’s shoulder. His hands were large, the left one missing the two smaller fingers. His nose had been broken and was twisted off-center to the right. He held a scaled-to-size broadsword in his right hand. It was the only sword among them. Unlike the other elves, Gant caught the occasional glint from a black breastplate on the leader’s chest. He continually scanned Gant’s party, surveying the entire camp.
“What do you want?” asked Gant, once he was on his feet.
“I’ll ask the questions,” snapped the leader. Gant waited and the leader went on. “Are you Gant of the Ironlimbs?”
“Yes.”
“Then you will go with us.” The leader motioned to his men who prodded them toward the forest.
Gant balked. “Where are you taking us?”
“It’s not yours to ask.”
Zandinar stepped next to Gant. “We’re not going anywhere until we know what this is about.”
Gant glared at the elf leader, their eyes locked. Captain Hesh and the three guardsmen encircled Pris defensively.
“You’ll kill a few of us but Gant and I will kill your whole party. Why risk it?” asked Zandinar.
The elves inched forward with their spears only to have the elf leader motion them back. “You are right,” he said. “There is no need for violence. I am Forest Lord Barkmar. Queen Sarona sent word to all patrols to find Gant and bring him to the Caverns of Darkness. Rumors of war in the West trouble her. She seeks counsel with Bartholomew’s descendant.”
The tension eased on both sides and the spear points inched lower.
“Then why the show of force?” asked Gant.
“Gorth’s men are everywhere. We weren’t sure who you were,” answered Barkmar. “We should be moving.” He motioned toward the forest.
“In the dark?” asked Pris. “Through the woods?”
“Yes,” said Barkmar sternly. “The daylight is not far away and Gorth’s agents comb the woods by day looking for refugees from Netherdorf. There is an elf trail only a little way ahead. We must be off. We’ve wasted too much time already.”
“We are going to Abadis’ house first, aren’t we?” suggested Kalmine from his position beside Pris.
“There’s no time,” said Barkmar. “It’s too far north.”
Before Gant could disagree Zandinar said, “It won’t matter. Abadis has missed our rendezvous already. He’s better equipped to find us than we are him.”
“You’ll have to leave the horses,” said the Elf Lord as several of the men started to load their bedrolls onto the animals. “Where we’re going the forest is too thick for them.”
“What will happen to them?” asked Pris.
“Don’t worry,” said the elf, “they’ll be found soon and as valuable as a good horse is, they aren’t likely to be mistreated.”
Without further discourse the party started off through the woods. The elves set a lopping pace that was easy for them to maintain but was too fast for the men. Soon the party slowed to a moderate walk. Still, the miles dropped behind them and by sunrise they’d left the road to Devonshield far behind.
All morning they moved along a trail so ill defined that often Gant wasn’t sure they were on a path. The massive trees slowly thinned to scrawny, low bushes and the soil turned rocky. Before long they were on a graded gravel trail through the rugged foothills of the Misery Mountains.
The afternoon sun beat down and Gant found himself drinking frequently from his water skin. Pris was having his troubles. His thin, boyish legs weren’t used to heavy exertion and he sagged under the burning sun. There were no clouds to block the blazing heat and before long they were stopping frequently to rest and let Pris’ tired muscles recover.
Shortly after one of these rest stops, as they marched down the gravel trail, a flurry of arrows rained down on them. The elf to Gant’s left went down with an arrow in his thigh. Another elf was hit in the chest and fell.
Before anyone could react, a second flight of arrows whistled in from the other side of the road. Three more elves were hit. Gant’s armor shed one of the feathered shafts as if it was nothing more than a bothersome insect. Zandinar’s armor turned aside more.
“They’re in the rocks on both sides of the road,” yelled Zandinar.
The elves dove for cover. A third volley of arrows clanked harmlessly on stone. With a cry, Zandinar charged the rocks above the trail to the left. Gant took the cue, dropped his visor and rushed the attackers hiding in the rocky cover to the right.
Arrows glanced harmlessly from their armor and quickly the two of them were amongst the assassins.
The instant Gant reached the rocks, a bullish warrior leaped out from behind a large boulder, an axe held overhead. Before the man could bring down the axe Valorius flashed once and severed the man’s arm. Gant reversed his swing and cut into the man’s guts. He fell dead. Gant whirled to meet a second brigand rushing at him. A short parry moved the man’s sword aside and Gant cut him down like a scythe fells wheat. Across the road, Zandinar slashed away with his massive sword and brought down another man.
Now, Barkmar charged the men on Gant’s side of the road. Captain Hesh, Krist, Patt and Faltern dashed to help Zandinar. Pris leaped to his feet, but was pulled down by the ever-present Kalmine.
Bows were forgotten and steel rang on steel. The brigands not engaged immediately broke and ran. At this, the elves rose from cover with their spears ready. As the each fleeing man became visible between the rocks, spears flew unerringly. Most fell where hit. A few struggled on. Some of those were stopped by other spears. Few escaped. Within moments it was over.
“Who were they?” asked Pris, wide-eyed, once the combatants had rejoined him on the road.
“I remember one of them from Blasseldune,” spat Zandinar. “He was one of those spreading stories of treason about Gant. Undoubtedly Gorth’s men.”
>
Barkmar returned to the road, a look of awe replacing his usual stern expression. “Fought like a true Champion,” he said, admiring Valorius.
“Yeah,” mumbled Gant, not comfortable thinking of his victory at Devonshield. It still bothered him that he’d had to kill to win.
“We should be going,” Kalmine reminded them, and set off down the road, pushing Pris ahead of him.
The elves regained their spears and soon the entire party was moving along the road again. Shortly after they’d resumed their march, Pris worked his way alongside Gant.
“You certainly can fight,” he said. “I think you and Zandinar could defeat an army single-handedly.”
Gant glanced at the young emperor. He saw the heroic dreams in Pris’ eyes. “I’m not so sure about that. We’re well trained and have the best weapons, but even we wear down.”
“I’ll bet Gorth has no chance,” continued Pris undaunted. “You are invincible.”
Zandinar stepped beside them. “No man is invincible,” he said sadly.
“Will you teach me to fight?” asked the emperor glancing from one to the other.
“We’ll see,” said Gant and clapped him on the back. “Maybe when there’s time. Now save your strength for walking.”
They continued walking along the graded, rocky trail the rest of the day stopping frequently in the shade of large boulders or rock outcroppings. By late afternoon they began encountering elf patrols from the Caverns of Darkness. These hurried off after exchanging information with Lord Barkmar.
Whatever news he got Barkmar kept to himself. He pushed ahead with renewed vigor testing the limits of Pris’ endurance. Gant was proud to see that the emperor went on without complaint.
Even when the sun dropped below the horizon, they continued. At one point Kalmine insisted they make camp, saying Pris could go no farther. But Barkmar overruled the old man, promising Pris a bed when they reached the elves’ stronghold. Still Barkmar gave no reason for the haste. Gant suspected something bad had happened or was about to.
Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) Page 23