The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3)

by Lee H. Haywood

  “You are so bold as to threaten me, yet I ask who amongst you is prepared to take on the throne? Which one of you will win the people’s support?” Rancor rose from his throne in defiance, passing his eyes slowly from one councilor to the next. The only councilor spared his odious gaze was Lady Rena. Her heart was clearly with her brother, and for now General Bailrich showed solidarity with the high lord. “You’re right, Lordess Farsidian, when you say we live in a time of dire consequences. Yet you foolishly stand ready to divide the empire right before we face the greatest challenge we have ever known.”

  “Removing you from power at this point in time would have an ill effect,” said Tulea with practiced poise. “That is precisely why we have not yet forced a vote of confidence. But we ask you now, show us an act of good faith in return for our clemency. Show the people that their Council and their high lord are not divided.” She motioned to the door.

  There was a low quarrel in the hall and a loud thump. Suddenly, the door swung ajar.

  Nochman bustled into the chamber, escorted by a pair of soldiers. His face was twisted in rage. “What has happened to this hallowed hall?” hissed Nochman. He looked to each of the councilors. “You have all sworn an oath. Tell me, how cheaply did Farsidian fill your pockets with her gold?”

  Tulea stood and addressed the former high lord. “As long as the Orb of Azure remains in this city, the enemy will have their eyes set upon us. The carrion horde has grown too powerful to be contested by military means. We are in a state of emergency, Lord Nochman. We must have the Orb.”

  “The state of emergency lies in your corrupt leadership,” yelled the deposed high lord.

  “All the same, we must know where the Orb is,” said Rancor. His voice came out quiet and without confidence.

  Nochman spun around, setting his gaze upon his son in disbelief. “I will give the Orb to no one, save the rightful owner. It will take no less than the return of Yansarian himself for me to reveal its location.”

  “Why would the Guardian come to our rescue?” inquired Tulea. “He has been in stasis for decades.”

  “Because I ordered that he be awakened,” snapped Nochman.

  Rancor groaned, his face noticeably blanching.

  Lord Hayne was already motioning to the High Tower guards. Lady Rena looked to her brother for direction. Lord Melo sucked his teeth. Riggin Vis grinned like a man who had just found a pot of gold. A look of horror overcame Tulea’s face. “Please tell me that I did not hear you correctly. Only a fool would awaken the Guardian.”

  “The Guardian may prove to be our only hope,” said Nochman, stamping his foot for effect.

  “More likely our doom,” said Tulea. “The Orb must be taken from here. If the necromancer doesn’t wrest it from your grasp, the Guardian certainly will.” She shook her head in disgust. “You have brought all of the evils in the world bearing down upon our fair city. You leave me with no choice; you must relinquish the Orb or face the consequences of treason.”

  Evelyn wanted to scream. Don’t grant the Orb to the Guardian. Don’t grant the Orb to the Council. Grant the Orb to me. I can protect everyone. But even as she thought this, she knew it wasn’t true.

  Nochman stood defiantly before the Council. “You haven’t the power to pass such judgment,” countered Nochman sternly. “Such a decision lies firmly in the hands of the High Lord of Luthuania.”

  “I think you will see that the Council and High Lord Rancor stand unified on this matter.” Tulea turned to Rancor.

  Rancor’s eyes were downcast.

  “They’ll hide it away, Son.” Nochman pointed to the councilors. “It may prove to be our only chance. Whatever doubt you have about the Guardian, you must trust me over the Council.”

  “I hardly trust the Council, Father,” said Rancor quietly. “But they are of sound mind on this ruling. The fate of Luthuania cannot be left in the hands of one insolent old man.”

  “You would condemn your own father?”

  “Long before I condemn my people,” said Rancor.

  Lord Nochman shook his head in despair. “If you feel in your heart that you rule in the greater interest of the people, then you have no other choice. The people outweigh all other costs.”

  “Then you will save me the pain of this decision,” said Rancor. “You will grant me knowledge of the Orb’s whereabouts?”

  Evelyn’s heart fluttered hopefully.

  “No.”

  Rancor cast his gaze over the gallery, and for a moment Evelyn imagined he looked right at her. He bit his lip and lowered his eyes in grief. “I am formally placing Lord Nochman under arrest.” His voice came out sure at first, but grew weaker with each passing word. “Treat him with the dignity he deserves, for he is not a common criminal, and place him within the cell beneath the east tower. That way, when he is ready to talk, we will not have far to go.” He looked to his father with heavy eyes. “Days father, we have mere days before the enemy lays siege to this bastion of civilization. Do not let your life’s work be in vain.” He turned his back and issued his final order. “Take him away.”

  Gauntleted hands latched onto to Nochman’s shoulders.

  “I see you have begun to make the hard decisions,” shouted Nochman venomously.

  Rancor snapped his head around to confront his father’s dark words, but Nochman was already shielded by a half-dozen High Tower guards. The chamber broke into a tumultuous uproar. People went running out of the chambers, clearly on a mission to spread the news.

  “High Lord!” called Evelyn.

  Rancor didn’t so much as turn his head to look in her direction.

  “Rancor,” she called, using his familiar name. She immediately cringed. Rancor’s face remained frozen in shame.

  “Go,” instructed Disias.

  Evelyn took a step toward the high lord, but Disias halted her by grabbing her shoulder. “Not to him. Rancor now rules in name alone. To Lordess Farsidian.” He gestured toward the departing matriarch.

  Evelyn nodded dumbly, and pushed through the crowd. “Lordess Farsidian,” called Evelyn over the din of people.

  Tulea halted her entourage when she saw it was Evelyn who called her name. “A pleasant surprise,” said Tulea. She smiled like a wolf who had just feasted. “Had I known you were in attendance I would have prolonged the meeting so that the other councilors might hear your petition. What can I do for you?”

  A queen does not petition, thought Evelyn angrily. But she was no queen. “I request the benevolence of the Council,” said Evelyn, hiding her ire. “My people need sanctuary within the city before the necromancer arrives.”

  The amity in Tulea’s face was gone. The charade over. “Who benefits, Evelyn? Not we, the people of Luthuania,” said Tulea, suddenly severe. “But I doubt also that you would benefit. Am I right? Do these people love you? Will they ever call you queen?” She pursed her lips. “I think not.”

  Tulea placed a hand on Evelyn’s neck, and slowly turned her head in the direction of Waymire and Disias. “What do you think it is they see in you? Hmm? Not all women need to be fucked to be used like a whore, and make no mistake, the general and the jester are using you.”

  “No...I...,” stammered Evelyn, completely taken aback by the turn in the polite lordess. “General Waymire is a friend. Lord Disias has faith the Weaver...”

  “Faith is a child’s game, Evelyn,” said Tulea harshly. “You would be wise to learn that lesson before you find yourself cast out of the city by the very people who swear to you their fealty. Now listen, and you will find that you can save yourself and your people too.”

  Tulea was no longer wreathed in sheepskin. She spoke to Evelyn as if she were stating an irrefutable truth, and Evelyn listened, holding back her tears and maintaining a stoic facade. Outwardly, she showed nothing of her heartbreak. Inside, her bile was raging. She nodded amiably when the lordess concluded and curtsied graciously, as if she had been granted a great service. And perhaps she had, because the truth was, Evelyn had no
other option but to comply; her peoples’ lives depended on it.

  CHAPTER

  IV

  LUCA MARCUS

  Nearby, the farm sputtered its last banners of flame into the morning sky. The dragoons had set the fire the previous night, and only the charred skeletal frame remained, tilting sideways as it fought the inevitable. Blackened corpses were piled in the middle of what was once a common room. One body was indistinguishable from the next.

  Luca polished the rings that adorned the fingers of his left hand with a silk handkerchief. He was generally disinterested in the discussion taking place. Tyronious was interrogating their hostages for what seemed like the dozenth time. Troop numbers and positions? Which bridges are garrisoned? Do you know of Prince Desperous’s whereabouts? Tyronious droned on, without so much as a single word in reply from the captives.

  They had intercepted the progression the previous evening; an armored carriage and a few dozen mounted knights. As soon as it was reported that the Hydra standard of House Vis flew over the carriage, Demetry’s eyes lit up like a child’s on his birthday. The young necromancer simply couldn’t resist, and the reward had proved fruitful: Lord Steflan Vis of the Luthuanian High Council and his second son, Marith Vis. Demetry demanded that the two be taken alive. It proved much easier said than done.

  The elder was a bit portly, but had arms like knotted tree trunks. He swung around a bastard sword that was nearly as long as his body. He would have been the largest elf Luca Marcus had ever seen were it not for his son, who was simply a stouter and younger replica of his father. They both fought like demons when surrounded, gallantly fending off wave after wave of carrions who tried to pull them from their mounts. It wasn’t until their horses were cut out from underneath them that they finally succumbed.

  Luca tucked his handkerchief into his breast pocket, having polished his rings to a shimmering sheen. Each of the jointed silver rings ran from knuckle to finger tip. There they tapered to a point, like the talons of an eagle. Each was beset with a stone to represent one of the four religious orders. Yellow sapphire for Yansarian, ruby for Vacia, opal for Niselus, diamond for the Weaver. Each was a god, revered and respected by the masses. Yet in truth, all four were subservient to the true god. On his thumb Luca bore a ring of carved moldavite. It was fashioned to resemble the stump of a tree with its roots looping to form the hoop of the ring. “The Shadow be praised,” whispered Luca.

  He knelt at the edge of the low wooden fence and eyed their captives.

  Steflan and his son were bound with their hands and feet tied behind their backs. They were thrown face down in a pigsty that sat adjacent to the gutted house. The mud was nearly deep enough to suffocate a man, and Steflan and his son had to wallow back and forth to keep their mouths clear of the mire. A large boar snuffled about their bodies, prodding them with his snout and biting at their sides from time to time.

  There were two types of fear in this world, Luca had come to realize. The first was irrational, based on the worst possible thoughts that could enter a person’s head. The second type of fear was founded in certainty. Both were powerful tools that Luca had wielded in the past to great effect. He was pleased to see that the eyes of Steflan Vis twinkled with a mixture of each.

  Steflan knew he was going to die. The barbaric gestures of his dragoon captor left him with no delusions. Already four men of his cavalcade had been strung up in a nearby tree. But the fact that they also held his son captive created that perfect mix of rational and irrational. Maybe if Steflan complied they might let his son walk from here. But if he did not...

  Luca decided it was time to stoke the flames of Steflan’s imagination. “How long do you think a man can live while a pig feasts upon his entrails?” He stuck the tip of his clawed ring to the stomach of Marith Vis, and drew the tip from sternum to navel. The pig snorted excitedly. “I’ll let you watch, of course,” said Luca to Steflan. “You and I can discover the answer together.”

  Steflan’s skin blanched, and all fight vanished from his grime-covered face. “Hold! I will talk!”

  Luca smiled. The first time he had ever seen that look of resignation upon a man’s face was at the Nexus during the Order’s revolt. His uncle had tasked him with heading off King Johan’s retreat through the city. But his men were five minutes too late, and when he and two dozen phirops burst from an alleyway to ambush the king, all they found was the end of Johan’s train. The king and his knights had already hacked their way through to the gatehouse. Those who remained to be taken captive were the women and children of Johan’s court; they had gotten trapped in the congestion and chaos of the streets.

  Not to disappoint his uncle, Luca rounded up the women of merit and paraded them to the top of the city’s battlements. Outside the wall were the remains of the king’s host; a motley crew of knights, fief lords, and Royal Guardsmen. They were licking their wounds and wondering what had happened to the end of their train. Luca set the women up in a row, and one by one he called out to their lord husbands in the field below, beckoning them to return to the city.

  Those who did were bludgeoned to death within the gatehouse mouth, so that all could see what fate awaited them. As for the men who refused to return to the city? He cast their wives off the wall. One by one he worked his way down the line until he finally arrived to Lady Kelci Manherm. She was a beautiful Kari woman, with hair the color of night, and dark brown eyes. She didn’t whimper once, even though she had already seen the fate that had befallen so many women and men before her. She stood stoically upon the lip of the crenel cupping her swollen belly. This was the wife of the man who had made his name hunting down the Order, the brother-in-law to the heir apparent. If a king was not to be had that day, Captain Waymire Manherm would prove some consolation.

  He remembered Waymire riding to the front of the king’s host, and there he paused, his eyes ablaze. Above all of the other lamenting voices, Luca could hear King Johan command the man to stay. Yet Waymire couldn’t bear it, and he spurred his horse into motion before the king’s men could halt his path. But even as he did, Lady Kelci threw herself from the battlements, smashing her skull to pieces on the ground below. Luca remembered the look in the captain’s eyes as he dismounted his horse; beyond rage, beyond heartbreak, beyond remorse. It was an emotion that only became manifest at the nadir of one’s existence. The young captain set the limp body of his beloved wife across his saddle and made the slow, solitary walk back to his king’s line. There goes a broken man, Luca remembered thinking. There goes a man who has resigned to his fate.

  This was how Steflan Vis looked right now.

  “Troop numbers and positions?” Tyronious’s eyes were impassive, as if he cared little of what Steflan had to say.

  Steflan hesitated for a second. Tyronious had waited long enough. He leapt over the fence, unlatched a meat hook that was tucked into his belt, and began to feed the dull tip into Marith’s rib cage. The sounds the boy made were unworldly. Luca smirked wryly; leave it to a dragoon to make the irrational a reality.

  “Troop numbers and positions? Which bridges are garrisoned? Do you know of Prince Desperous’s whereabouts?” repeated Tyronious.

  “I will talk, I will talk! The boy knows nothing!” screamed Steflan. “Fifty thousand. Mostly clustered around Lake Jasmine. The garrison is weakest at Breaker’s Bend.”

  Demetry’s ears perked as this announcement.

  Tyronious wrenched the hook free. Marith gibbered manically to himself as a rivulet of blood began to spurt from the circular hole. With his hands tied behind his back, all the brawny boy could do was watch helplessly as the blood pooled across his stomach and ran into the mire of the sty. The pig snorted at the blood with interest.

  “I am not some hedge lord,” pleaded Steflan Vis. “I sit upon the High Council of Luthuania. My family has held the Teeth for a dozen generations. I can tell you more...I will tell you more. But first you must release my son.”

  Luca Marcus had to work hard to keep his face from
showing his amusement. The Lord of the Teeth was a high prize indeed, but the man had overly valued the worth of his own life.

  Demetry nodded to Tyronious. Luca never saw the motion. One second the councilor was alive, the next a pit had been dug into his chest. A few driveling words passed Steflan’s throat, then silence. The tip of Tyronious’s wing blade ran red with blood.

  Demetry knelt, placing his hand over the gaping hole in Steflan’s leather doublet. His hand suddenly began to shimmer with blue light.

  “No, Your Grace. Not someone this inconsequential,” said Luca, knowing full well the risks Demetry was taking.

  “How else will I discover what he knows,” said Demetry with a mock look of distress.

  Steflan began to shudder and seize as he was brought back from oblivion. “Now sing for me,” ordered Demetry. A low guttural utterance slipped from Steflan’s lips, and his tongue began to clack against the roof of his chalk dry mouth. “Cotist rit osasrio...,” began the wraith.

  Demetry stood upright and shrugged. “The man was telling the truth. We’ll move on Breaker’s Bend.” He looked to Tyronious. “He knows nothing of Prince Desperous’s whereabouts. Why did you wish to know?”

  “The prince is a threat, that’s all,” said Tyronious, clearly lying.

  Demetry looked to Marith Vis, who was now sobbing uncontrollably. “A good son always swears to his father above all else,” said Demetry. “Let’s see how loyal the boy truly is.” A second nod to Tyronious sent the hook through Marith’s temple.

  Tyronious drew the bloody hook across his own chest, letting the blood intermingle with the painted runes that covered his bare skin.

  Luca scowled at the dragoon with disgust.

  “Do you feel that, proconsul?” said Tyronious. “That’s the Shadow creeping as it ever does.”