As the Prince of Angels dropped his sword and shield to the ground, the golden-helmed warrior suddenly found his feet. Crystoph didn't let the limping charge of his enemy distract him however, and he opened his mortal frame to the power of the Tides. He recited the commands in the language of the Sigils that would bend the Tides to his will and thrust his hand forward, a cone of flames erupted from his outstretched hand and blasted the golden armor of his foe.
The gout of flame knocked the warrior backward a step, his injured knee gave way. Crystoph repeated the Sigilspell again, and another cone of flames erupted from his hand, this time the warrior's shield took the brunt of it. Again he blasted his enemy, and again the golden warrior faltered, but the great Cjii would not relent from his assault until he saw the golden armored warrior fall to his hands and knees. His foe sufficiently weakened, Crystoph performed another spell. The angel relented in his attack, dropped his sword and shield, and clasped his hands before him in concentration.
The golden warrior staggered up, sensing Crystoph wasn't through with him yet, and hoped to seize the opportunity to attack. Sword high, the armored warrior struggled forward on shattered knee and pushed through agonizing pain to strike the angel while he was defenseless. Crystoph had expected this and had a defensive spell ready to parry any deadly sword blow.
But he wasn't prepared for what the golden warrior did next.
Crystoph suddenly found that the Tides were inexplicably leaving him. He managed to capture some of the Tidal flows and store some energy but he wasn't sure it would be enough to finish his spell. He felt like a child trying to stop the waves from receding back into the ocean. The great Prince of Angels was severely limited by his mortal form and he was forced to use the Tides in the way that mortals did, not the way the great Cjii did. His magic was nearly depleted, his weapons were on the ground in front of him, and his enemy ambled closer. Mocking laughter drifted from the depths of the shining helm and Crystoph knew he had underestimated this foe. This was no lowly underling of Q'raz. The mocking laughter called out for Crystoph to surrender. Crystoph did not reply. While he was at a disadvantage, he was far from defeated. And now he recognized his enemy's voice. He waited for his adversary to get closer, standing stoically though he felt as if he were being battered by invisible hands. Air! While he knew whom it was he now faced, the great Cjii had not expected to be attacked with the powers of the Air Sigil.
"Does the great Prince Crystoph feel naked, trapped in a mortal body with no magic to save him?" mocked his enemy.
"Only in your mind, filthy boot-licker!" he shouted viciously, fending off invisible blows to the cackling laughter of his opponent. "You are a toad. You cannot defeat me!"
"You are mighty in your arrogance, Crystoph, if not in your prowess," said the warrior curiously, watching as Crystoph fell to the ground. "Do you have anything to say before I kill you?"
He watched the fallen prince intently, even as he continued to pummel him with invisible blows. "No? Pity. I would love to be there when Grymm sends your soul on to afterlife, where you will be judged and sent to commiserate with the souls of the pitiful wretches who follow Zuhr." He hobbled closer to the prince and stopped the invisible barrage of air-crafted fists from battering the prince. He held his sword poised above the prince's exposed neck.
Crystoph looked at the blade that now rested on his throat, blood was trickling from his mouth. The pain he now felt reminded him how fragile the mortal races truly were, while the chill of the steel blade seemed to bring some of his power surging back. This foe seemed to enjoy tormenting Crystoph in his last moments of life. A mocking smile played about Crystoph's lips, he would not go quietly.
"At the moment of your death, you find mirth? Is it pride that makes you laugh in the face of your executioner?" asked his opponent. Crystoph sensed a sliver of doubt in his voice.
"I know who you are," he croaked. A booted foot slammed into his ribs in response and pain wracked his body. When he recovered enough to speak, he reached up and touched the helm of his foe. "You are now, and have always been, a fool!"
The armor-clad warrior tried to back away but seemed to be stuck fast to the hand of the prince. Crystoph sent all of the power he had left, all that he had stored before the Tidal flows were sealed off from him, flowing into the enemy's helm. The metal glowed red from the power of the Flametide surging through it. The heat transferred from the helm into the Cjii's armor. Soon the warrior's golden armor glowed red and began to flow as it liquefied. Grunts and groans of pain whimpered out from the depths of the helm as feeble hands swung steel impotently at the prince. Crystoph would not, could not, relent. He had his foe subdued, and by honor the Prince of Angels should offer quarter to the enemy and accept his surrender.
Crystoph was not a merciless warrior, and truly felt bound by honor to offer surrender to a subdued foe. For this reason it pained him greatly to finish this enemy without mercy. But the dire circumstances forced Crystoph to forgo the tradition of the Cjii. This enemy must die. As his foe weakened, the spell he had used to lock the Tides from Crystoph failed and the prince felt warm energy coursing through him again.
"I surrender! I surrender!" whimpered the Cjii, as he dropped his weapon and thrashed against the excruciating pain lancing through his helm.
"I am sorry, for what that's worth," he said channeling the Tides for his next spell. "But I cannot accept your surrender."
Eyes deep within the helm widened and Crystoph had to steel himself against the agony and fear he saw in those eyes. They were the eyes of a fellow Cjii, even if that Cjii served the wayward Q'raz. Aside from the perverse and malformed demon Cjii that served Umber, most of the Cjii felt a kinship if not a friendship. There was a code of honor that dictated the way the Cjii interacted with each other and with mortals.
But that code had been broken by the Cjii who served Q'raz and Umber. They had begun the stirrings of war. Now that war was under way, Crystoph could not let this enemy take control of a powerful weapon or report intelligence about it to his superiors. And he could not take the Cjii prisoner.
"We were once good friends," said Crystoph as he removed his hands from the Cjii's head as life fled from his mortal form. In a flash a blade made of magical flames appeared in his hand. "But you have started a war and you have broken the code of honor. Goodbye, Devoricus!"
Crystoph exhaled deeply and released his hold on the Tides as the head of Devoricus rolled to a stop at his feet.
C H A P T E R
T W O
~
The day was warmer than it had been in a very long time, though it was far from actually warm. A chill breeze blew and the two people sitting at a sidewalk table outside the Shadyside Inn shifted uncomfortably; winter was not through with the island yet. The silence between them was profound, each lost in deep thought while eating a warm meal. Carym took a long pull from his glass and blew out a long breath. The drink was warm, perfect for the air; it was a local drink that was part whiskey, part cream and part something very sweet. The fiery brew warmed his blood and stirred his thoughts toward the urgency of the quest, weighing it against the necessity of their delay.
A good many people went about their business on the streets of Myrnwell beneath a clear blue sky, taking advantage of the first somewhat hospitable day in a long time. Carym watched as carts pulled by horses or oxen carried goods to the market district and ornate carriages took the wealthier from place to place. Seagulls dived down into the streets to peck at the scraps of food fallen from carts. Every now and then one of the city's poorer folk would get lucky with a rock and dine on roasted seagull in an alley.
He turned back to the raven-haired beauty across from him and sighed, she seemed intent on the bottom of the glass of wine before her. It was the first time the lovers had been able to share a moment alone and the weight that each carried proved to be more than words could bear. The two had had very little time for each other during their winter stay in Myrnwell. Each had endured strenuous and dema
nding training at the hands of their mentors. Carym spent a significant amount of time training in martial combat with members of the Training Fist, a company of knights that resided permanently at the Hand of Zuhr barracks in Myrnwell. Several experienced knights served there as trainers for the new recruits of the Hand who would spend weeks under their tutelage. He recalled the necessary brutality of that training with an involuntary wince, and his muscles recalled well the merciless strikes from wooden swords, spears and clubs. By the time winter's harsh grip had diminished, Carym found that his old skills had been refined by new tactics and forms he had not known; his reflexes were now razor sharp. The daily exercise routines strengthened him and helped him to work out the kinks and knots that formed in his muscles during the previous months of travel and combat. He was fit, his mind was sharp and he felt like he could take on the world.
At first Carym had not been keen to take part in the rigorous training, having been an accomplished fighter in his own right, but Bishop Rohan convinced him otherwise. Soon Carym learned a very important and painful lesson, there was always more to learn. The bishop was a very wise man and Carym had tremendous respect for him. It was under Rohan's tutelage that Carym learned more of the conflict in the heavens, the conflict between Zuhr and his children, and of the faith of devotees to Zuhr. The conflict that would soon spill over onto Llars.
Carym took another pull of the strong brew and looked at Genn as she looked back at him. Her beauty was dark and intoxicating, Carym was reminded of his brief meeting with Zerva in the woods beside the old druid's grove; the two were very different. Where Zerva was soft, gentle and nurturing, Genn was possessed of an inner fire of determination and drive. She seemed to harbor an inner anger, nurtured it, and railed against those whom she felt were working against her. At times she had the right of it, being Keneerie among humans was no easy thing, though her reaction was prideful all the same.
Rohan had warned against the damage a person could do to themselves and to others by excessive pride and hubris. Carym grew worried for his own soul as well as for Genn's. He had done a great many dark deeds in the throes of pride. Just when Carym feared that he may have done irreparable damage to his own soul, he learned of there was much more to Zuhr. Zuhr was a kind and forgiving god, and among his many virtues were those of forgiveness and redemption, something that Carym took great consolation in. Knowing that he could be redeemed, that he could be forgiven, brought out an inner strength he never knew he had. And Gennevera, she just could not seem to grasp the significance.
In all, Carym found very little time to spend with the woman who had become his lover. Gennevera had been involved in her own rigorous training and was now a full-fledged member in the revived and very ancient Order of the Divine Healer. This was an order of sisters devoted to Zuhr and skilled in the natural arts of healing. It was even said that the older and wiser sisters had been granted special gifts of power by Zuhr, but the truth was a secret the women guarded fiercely and would not speak of with men, not even the Knights of the Hand. The Sisters were a tough bunch, Carym noted, and even engaged in their own forms of marital training for they would be called upon to take part in dangerous missions to spread their faith. Those who undertook a mission were assigned a Hand Protector to guard over them on their journey. Bishop Rohan, mindful of the significance of their quest, saw to it that Carym would be assigned that duty for Gennevera.
Still, there were precious few moments for the couple to spend time together. During those rare moments, Carym found that Gennevera's personality had taken on a much harder edge. She seemed distant, aloof, but Carym suspected that the training she was going through was much more rigorous than he could imagine and did not press her.
"We can't stay here forever," she said suddenly, steel in her voice.
"You're right, spring is coming and the way through to the Jaguar Lands will be easier to negotiate."
Gennevera nodded and said nothing more. The silence was uncomfortable for Carym, he wanted her to keep talking. She looked out into the street, watching some children as they tried to make a snowman from the melting snow. People walked the streets of Obyn going about their business, ox carts and wagons carried wares to and from market, two members of the Cavalry of the Hand ambled along atop their massive war bulls, steel-tipped horns gleaming in the sunlight.
"Gennevera, why do you seem so--" Carym began, but the sudden sound of a man screaming interrupted him. Carym and Genn both looked down the cobblestone boulevard toward the sound. Everyone in the area heard it, even the children stopped their play to protect their ears from the frightful shrieking.
"That's horrible!" said Genn, covering her ears. "It sounds like someone is dying!"
Carym watched as the mounted knights looked at each other, then took off toward the sound, the tips of their spears reflecting the bright winter sun. A chorus of hideous howling sounds rose above even the sound of the thundering hooves as the knights rode toward the perceived danger.
"It sounds like a pack of wolves!"
"In broad daylight?" asked Genn, fearfully. Carym knew why she was concerned. No ordinary wolf pack would risk hunting in a big city like Obyn, especially during daylight hours.
"They've found us..." he said with dread, she nodded. He didn't know precisely what, but the sound could only have been from one of Umber's Shadowhunters.
Carym knew with solemn certainty that someone had just died, and it was likely that many more would die before the day was out if the Shadowfyr's hunters were on the trail. Gennevera's expression hardened just then, and it seemed to Carym that the kind woman he knew at the beginning of the journey had just vanished, replaced by a doughty fighter.
"We should go," she said, rising calmly to her feet. As she stood, the afternoon sun shone on her raven tresses and the silver trim of her maroon robes. A cudgel, fashioned from the leg of a wasp dragon vanquished long ago in the Underllars, was in her hand. Carym rose to follow her, leaving a few coins on the table. The pair walked quickly to their horses. A few of the other patrons who were enjoying the winter sun nearby noticed Genn's attire and Carym's own dark blue tabard with a silver palm and dove emblem. Carym just nodded to the citizens.
They reached their tethered horses and mounted quickly as the sounds of a pitched battle drifted down the boulevard.
"Carym!" called Genn, nodding in the wrong direction. To Carym it seemed she wanted to ride back to the Tower for help; Carym knew that they would never make the half-day journey in time.
"No," he said calmly, his mind shifting into that battle state where he acted purely on training and instinct. "It's the Shadowfyr's minions, and they have come for me."
"But we--" the sound of men fighting mixed with the shrill howls of whatever beasts were stalking them interrupted her. The howling stopped abruptly and she shivered as a poignant silence filled the streets.
"By the sound of it, those brave knights have lost their fight. We have an advantage of higher ground, we will fight here."
Carym turned his horse and trotted quickly back to the inn and shouted at the patrons to move inside. He trotted up and down the street, ordering people to clear the road. A squad of the Rhi's own guardsmen jogged to the intersection where Carym and Genn were preparing to fight.
"Clear the road!" ordered one of the guardsmen, probably a squad leader. "This is no business for the Hand!"
"Sergeant," Carym said as he walked his horse over to the man. Fear began to prick his soul. The incessant pursuit by the Shadow's minions triggered a sense of paranoia and he struggled to stay calm. "You won't be able to fight these things alone, we must work together."
"I see," the man said, scowling even as citizens continued to flee. "Your High and Mighty Knightship thinks that us lowly peasants can't handle a pack of nuisance dogs!"
Carym backed away as he saw what created the disturbance slinking up the slope of the road. The sergeant had not yet seen the terrible creatures with gaping maws, instead he congratulated himself for bullying
a Knight of the Hand. Carym drew his fighting sticks, connected them in the middle to form one long fighting staff, and then set them aflame. He wore no armor, preferring the magical armor spell that would encase his body in protective magical stone plates. When the sergeant saw what Carym had just done with his magic, his jaw dropped. Then the sergeant turned to see what Carym was staring so intently at and frantically shouted for his men to get into a spear formation. This was essentially a "V" shaped formation with the tip pointing toward the advancing foes, and Carym thought that was a good choice for these men. Four gigantic wolves trotted silently toward the nervous guardsmen.
The wolves were massive, nearly the size of Carym's own horse, with eyes glowing fiercely. Their fur was dark, mottled, somewhat mangy. Saliva dripped from pearly fangs as low growls emanated from gaping maws. The four massive beasts stared at the humans, hatred and venom clear in their eyes. Palpable evil radiated from the creatures. Carym had no doubt that these were agents of the Shadowfyr.
The sense of evil translated into a fear that penetrated deeply into Carym's soul, and he was truly tempted to flee. It was all he and Genn could do to keep their horses from bolting away from these horrifying creatures. Each of the beasts had distinctive markings, they were like no wolves Carym had ever seen. Their eyes were aglow with unholy ferocity, their teeth bared and bloody. Any creature that could take out a pair of mounted Knights of the Hand were creatures to be feared indeed; his heart ached for their needless deaths. The wolves spread out in a formation of their own, moving in concert to unheard commands. The sergeant ordered his men to spread farther out in response to the movements of the deadly beasts, but Carym sensed that was exactly what the wolves wanted.
"Sergeant, close up your ranks! Close them up!" shouted Carym urgently. "Don't let them through your line! Close up, for the love of Zuhr!"
"Coward!" shouted the sergeant over his shoulder. "We can stand against a few dogs!"
The Tomb of the Dark Paladin Page 3