"Carym, you never left!"
Carym shook his head wryly. He had never before experienced the manifestation of Sigil power in that way before. However, he could not afford to dwell on this new intoxicating manifestation of Tidal powers, something terrible was going on in there. He leaped to his feet and held his staff aloft, using it as a focal point to channel power from the Sigilstones in his pocket.
"Carym, what--"
"Ederick is in trouble!" he grumbled. Then with all his might he swung his staff toward the gate and a great read fireball erupted from its tip. The fireball hurtled across the empty space and slammed into the gate in an explosion of flame and molten metal and rock. When the smoke cleared there was nothing but a hole in the wall where the gate had been. Carym rushed through the opening and into the courtyard beyond. Genn followed behind, her cudgel in hand and ready to fight.
But neither of them expected to see what came next. The courtyard was filled with knights and men-at-arms, focused upon a place in the courtyard even as they shielded themselves from bright light and thunder. A shimmering, brilliant, light flared before them all as angry soldiers looked on. Even the bishop seemed curiously intent, his crook aloft in an offensive posture. Then the light closed in upon itself and flickered out. Carym sensed a tremendous amount of Sigil power went with it. His eyes adjusted quickly, but so did the eyes of the gathered men of the Hand. As recognition dawned upon their faces and weapons slowly trained upon them, Carym realized that Ederick and Bart were gone.
Carym held one of his fighting sticks aloft and summoned a fireball made of magical flame. He held the fireball poised in the air above his fighting stick and waited as all in the courtyard seemed to slowly wake as if from a dream. Bows and crossbows began to lower and men sheathed swords, rubbing their eyes or their faces and wondering what happened.
"Carym?" asked the bishop, looking about in a confused fog. "Is that you?"
"Aye," he replied, wary.
Rohan looked around and spied the wagon across the courtyard. His face darkened and for the first time Carym thought he saw fury in the man's visage. Carym recognized the black wagon as belonging to the hurkin wizard that had been fighting with Bart and Ederick. Seeing that the immediate danger was over, Carym trotted after Rohan and caught him near the wagon.
"I'm so sorry, Carym. I don't know how this happened," said Rohan, stopping to look over the black wagon. "I remember the arrival of that wagon, along with a number of villagers who came demanding your arrest. They were being led by that vile hurkin, though his hood had been drawn so low when I first saw him that I had no idea he wasn't human. I remember Ederick's arrival and the hurkin ordered my men to arrest him. Then Bart appeared, quite dramatically, out of the sky and called down thunder and lightning from the heavens!"
Carym listened intently, unsure whether the bishop's mind was fully free of the spell, could he trust the bishop? If Bart could fly and hurl lightning bolts, the bard truly had become a powerful Storm Lord
"The lightning rained down in the courtyard and we were all forced to look away. When it stopped, Barthal and Sir Ederick were gone."
Carym sighed heavily.
"What will you do, Bishop?" he asked, though he knew the answer.
"What we must, to avoid war. But I fear we may have already started one." The bishop's voice was strained, his expression pained. He looked about the courtyard at the damage and the bodies of the dead Myrnnish folk who had also been under the sway of the hurkin.
"Hurkin are powerful wizards, Bishop. You couldn't have known."
Bishop Rohan nodded in agreement, though his expression proved that he did not agree. He strode angrily to the black wagon with the red skull and crossed sword emblem on the door. Rohan flung open the door in anger and was going to climb in, but Carym climbed up ahead of him.
"Empty," he said as he climbed inside to look. The interior of the wagon was nearly bare, save for a cot and a trunk. The trunk held only a few papers and the uniform of a wizard of the Hurkin Horde. Carym looked at the papers closely and tried to read them but they were written in the language of the Hurkin Horde, a dialect of Hurkrish spoken only by the hurkin military. He stepped down from the wagon and handed the papers to Bishop Rohan. "Do any of your intelligence agents know Hurkrish?"
"Yes," he said, thumbing through the papers. Rohan ordered a nearby soldier to fetch someone named Hilket. "I'll have these analyzed by Hilket; he has been a most promising squire."
"That name sounds hurkin," said Carym suspiciously.
"It is," replied the bishop, sighing as he stuffed the papers inside his jacket. "Hilket has suffered at the hands both human and hurkin for grievances he never committed. Do not judge him."
Carym nodded at the rebuke, it was well-deserved. "Where did Bart and Ederick go, Bishop?"
"I don't know," he said, frustrated. "I recall a flash of light before they disappeared, but that's all." He nodded. "As much as it pains me to say so, you are right," the bishop said. "Delfyd Rhi blames the Hand for what happened. There have been other attacks in other towns throughout Myrnwell. Many have died at the hands of these werewolves. Delfyd Rhi said it is Zuhr's fault these spawn of the Shadowfyr have come to Myrnwell to hunt and kill its people."
"More dead," he said with a heavy sigh. "Will it ever end?"
"Indeed," agreed the bishop. "However, an entire squad of Delfyd's own men are dead; we lost only two. He believes the entire ordeal was contrived by us. The people in the great city of Obyn were never quick to support the Hand. And now with the appearance of werewolves and this," he waved his hand at the courtyard. "It will only be a matter of time before Delfyd gathers an army to confront us."
"So we just run?" asked Genn, casting an angry glare at the bishop. Carym laid a restraining hand on her arm lest her quick temper earn her punishment; she shook free of him. "This is our home! I want to stay here, Carym. Here!"
"There is little choice, I fear," said the bishop, choosing not to acknowledge the woman's lack of respect. "The Hand must leave Myrnwell too, we cannot risk a war that will endanger innocents and turn them against Zuhr."
"You are abandoning us?" demanded Genn, actually stomping the ground in her frustration. "After all we have been through here? After we have devoted our lives to your cause?"
"Please don't look at it like that, my child."
"Don't 'my child' me!"
"Genn, please!" urged Carym. "Remember who you are sworn to serve!"
"It's alright, Carym. I understand her anger," offered the bishop. "But there is no time for consolation. You have to leave, now."
"The bishop is right, Genn. It is time to leave, regardless of the circumstances."
Genn scowled but said nothing more.
"You must be careful, my son. Those werewolves are very dangerous and they will not stop hunting you."
"And they are damned hard to kill," he growled.
"Yes, I'm afraid they are. They always travel in packs, like true wolves."
"How do we kill them?" asked Carym.
"Magical fire will harm them, from what I've read. Perhaps it will kill them, perhaps not."
"My flames did seem to slow them down," agreed Carym. "It seemed to be the only thing."
"The only other thing that could help, would be weapons made from silveryl."
"Thank you, Bishop. It has been an honor," Carym said and bowed. Genn wore an expression of displeasure. "We will go immediately."
Bishop Rohan embraced Carym warmly. Then he moved to embrace Gennevera, but the woman moved away from him.
"Very well, Carym and Gennevera. Go with Zuhr's blessing. May his strength be your strength, may his speed be your speed!"
"And you as well, Bishop. Where will you go?"
"Alfheym," he said simply, his eyes alight with pride.
"Alfheym," Carym repeated in amazement. "The Crimson Elves will take you in?"
"I do not yet know what reception we will face, but Zuhr has shown me that this is what I must do. There is another legion o
f the Hand in the north that we will meet in Alfheym."
"They will help you," Carym said confidently. "They must."
The bishop didn't seemed inclined to discuss the matter and simply nodded. Horses had been brought up for them, stamping their feet in the cold air, anxious; as though they knew they were about to embark upon a journey.
Carym knew Gennevera was upset, angry beyond words but he did not truly understand why. He found himself angry with her for it. She had been through a lot and had become devoted to her new faith and her new Sisters in Zuhr. She spent many hours in grueling martial training and had precious little time to spend with him; and he with her. She seemed to take this as a personal affront, as though the bishop were punishing them somehow. She was being irrational. What other choice did the bishop have?
He shook his head ruefully, trying to understand the female mind. He put his hand on Genn's shoulder but she only turned away. Her raven tresses were somehow glowing, even though the sun had long set and the moon was hidden behind gray clouds. Carym sighed, exasperated.
"Carym," said the bishop nodding to the middle of the courtyard. "Sir Ederick's horse."
Carym walked to the noble horse and patted him on the neck. "Where did your master go?"
The open flab on the knight's saddlebag caught Carym's attention. He peered inside and saw a black box with the Hurkromin logo on it. Rohan was at his side and he handed the box to the bishop.
"What is it, Bishop?"
"You had best leave this with me, Carym." The bishop solemnly closed the lid. "It is the cursed gold of Hurkromin!"
C H A P T E R
F O U R
~
Cannath, puppet-ruler of Hybrand, looked out from his chambers in the rooftop tower of Castle Hybrand. The sea was frothing today and a harsh wind blew in his face, mirroring the bitter remorse that had become his life. He was drunk, again. After the coronation by Umber's high priest things in Hybrand had deteriorated. Rapidly. His army had been disbanded and his men forced into service in the Hurkin Horde. "The Horde," he growled bitterly. He might have tolerated such a thing better had the men been sent to the front in Nashia or elsewhere. For any human to be pressed into service of the Horde was a death sentence. They were little more than slaves to their hurkin masters and often used as battle fodder alongside bumbling oroks to save the skins of their masters. It was terrible. Those of his men, and those men who served the Arnathian army, gallantly fought to the death. The city seemed empty now. Even the deceased Craxis and his Arnathian troops stood silently in an empty warehouse by the pier. Coronus was forced to house his dead troops there to keep the gulls and carrion eaters from ruining his soldiers.
Cannath pulled hard on his bottle of whiskey and slammed it down on the sill, breathing hard. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and noticed, not for the first time, that his stubble had grown into a beard. A dirty beard that smelled of booze.
And then there was Commander Coronus. The elf whom he once thought to be a genius and had considered awarding a medal of valor, was in fact a dark and evil being the likes of which the thayne had never known. Coronus was one of Umber's Dark Disciples; extraordinary beings that had lived for centuries on the borrowed power of their benefactor. Coronus was a High Elf, a cousin to the Crimson and Frost Elves that he was familiar with. However, there had been no sign of High Elves in centuries, perhaps even a thousand years. This one was powerful beyond Cannath's reckoning. He commanded an army of corpses: dead men! Such a thing seemed blasphemous at first to Cannath, but his old friend had persuaded him otherwise.
Cannath had been drunk on another kind of spirit then, the intoxicating liquor of power. In his desperation to break the curse of his family's history and free Hybrand from imperial power he had chosen his allies poorly. So determined was he not to repeat the mistake his grandfather made in allying himself with Arnathia, he could not see he was making an even greater mistake than his predecessor. A mistake from which he could not recover.
The thought of Gavinos' betrayal sent lightning bolts of anger coursing through him. Never in his wildest imaginings would he have assumed the conniving elf was in fact an ancient relic of Umber's last foray into the world of mortals. The elf who was neither Crimson nor Frost, had given a skillful performance whilst pretending to be the would-be thayne's friend and adviser. The thought galled him. Gavinos had spent all that time and energy working on behalf of Hybrand just to give it to Umber. And the reason, he had learned, was to give the Hurkin Horde a place from which they could launch an invasion of Arnathia. It was clear to the puppet-ruler that the dark god was bent on world domination. And what better time than now? Arnathia was in shambles, the Cklathish kingdoms squabbled amongst themselves and Alfheym seemed disinclined to involve itself in the world.
He held the bottle of whiskey up above his mouth. It was empty. Angrily he threw it into the air and watched it sail harmlessly to the rocks below. He could not hear the sound of the bottle smashing into shards upon the rocks below, but imagined that the bottle was Gavinos and smiled.
Hugh Renaul had once been Cannath's most trusted friend and adviser. But the strange, fair-skinned elf had charmed his way into Cannath's court and convinced him to marginalize his old friend. Cannath suspected that Gavinos had probably used his dark magic to manipulate this change. Cannath knew that he had always been driven by the need to reclaim his throne and rule over his inferiors. It seemed that the devious elf had used that deep-seated need against him, forcing him to send the man he had trusted on a fool's errand. Cannath had been so consumed by his need for power, his need for the throne, that he could not even recall where it was that he had sent Hugh. The man simply had never returned. Cannath assumed that Hugh must be dead. The thayne turned away from the window and faced the opening to the staircase. He was drunk, but he desperately wanted to go downstairs and confront someone and it didn't matter whom; yet he was a prisoner still.
During the months that followed his ascension to the throne, and his relegation to puppet status, he remained secluded in his private tower. There were servants who catered to his needs, yet he was not permitted to leave. It was outrageous. He dared not venture out, for he rightly suspected that his people would revile him for the dark alliance he made. Far too many dark and terrible things had happened to the people of Hybrand, and most of it done with the "thayne 's blessing." He was powerless; a prisoner in the gilded cage that was his private tower in Castle Hybrand.
Cannath had time to explore the home he had never truly known during his life as the puppet of the Arnathians. So it was that one day he discovered a passageway hidden behind a bookcase. This tower had been sealed off from the rest of the castle by the Arnathians long ago and Cannath doubted that they had known of the existence of the secret passages. As he explored the passageway, he found that there were many hidden rooms and passages that led outside his prison-tower to other parts of the castle. The most amazing discovery he made, however, was an ancient throne room. It was so deeply hidden within the massive presence of Castle Hybrand that Cannath thought perhaps that it was part of a long forgotten castle, and built upon many times over. It was so old the dust on the floor was a hand-breadth deep. Every step he took into the room stirred an unbearable cloud of choking dust and he was forced to wrap a cloth over his face and wait for the dust settle enough for him to see what was in the room.
But this room had not been completely forgotten, as the thayne had found. There were two things in the room: a suit of leather armor with a blue tabard and a sword. The tabard, he recalled, had been in remarkable shape considering how long it must have been hidden there. It was a deep royal blue with a silver shield emblazoned upon the chest, and an ancient coat of arms not used in generations adorned the shield. It was a simple design, three golden legs extending out from a central point upon which was a castle.
The armor seemed plain enough, a few inscriptions in an ancient language adorned the sleeves. Though he could not read the language of the inscription
s there was one word that he could read, and it sent a chill down his spine.
And there was a sword. The weapon rested point down, with its hilt leaning upon the wooden stand that held aloft the armor. He lifted the sword and felt a surge of energy run from his hand up the length of his arm. The blade was incredibly light and felt as though it had somehow become part of own body. In keeping with its surroundings, the blade was relatively unadorned save for an inscription in the same language that adorned the armor. He recalled a tale told to him by his father when he was a young boy. Though the details of the story were lost to him, Cannath remembered his father talking wistfully of a sword of ancient Dwarvish make. That was an astonishing thing, as the dwarves had been gone from Llars for longer than even the elves could remember. Could this be it? The hilt was cool to the touch and calmed his nerves. The knowledge of the tragedy he inflicted upon his people blackened his soul, for he had repeated the bloody mistake his uncle had made in dealing with Arnathia. He didn't care about being thayne anymore. He didn't care about Hybrand, or Arnathia, or even the Hurkin Horde.
Now all he wanted was revenge.
Cannath strapped on the sword and headed downstairs. Even though relegated to impotence and bedraggled in appearance, the thayne was still an imposing figure. He was tall, strong and muscular. Now he was clad in the blue tabard over the leather armor. The thought of the power that these items would wield for him was sobering. He wanted revenge desperately. He marched grimly along the lengthy trek through the hidden world of Castle Hybrand into a room on the main level of the castle. From there Cannath walked out into the hallway that led to throne room. It seemed that the farther he walked, the clearer his mind became and the more confidently he strode.
All he cared about now was revenge and he did not care if died in the process of obtaining it.
#
Cannath strode up to the door that led to the throne room and was ignored. The page, a hurkin whose job it was to announce important visitors, glanced vaguely in his direction before continuing his attempt at rolling a coin across his knuckles. Cannath opened the door, not deigning to address the paige and missed the horrified look upon the hurkin's face when the door opened. He surveyed the room, his room, and saw that the vile and filthy hurkin known as King Ognadrog -ruler of Hurkromin- sat atop the throne. The hurkin was detestable to Cannath. His skin was a pasty gray color and his eyes were large pools of blackness. The hurkin king's head was elongated and shaved, revealing pointy ears. His mouth was overly large with tusks protruding from his upper lips, his upturned nose gave him a slightly piggish appearance. Ognadrog was a fearsome being, and he was renowned for his cruelty. His armor was black steel with bones of enemy soldiers affixed to its surface, it hung imposing on a wooden frame next to the throne. The hurkin king carried a long mace, preferring to bludgeon his enemies to death rather than give them a quick end. The worst part of the evil creature's appearance was that he sat upon Cannath's ancestral throne.
The Tomb of the Dark Paladin Page 6