“It is a Jeta Stone,” said Yansarian. “A sacred tool of the Guardians. Through this conduit, what you have seen and gone through, I, too, have experienced.”
A single tendril trailed from the stone, disappearing into the web of the Guardian’s robe. Desperous felt betrayed. “Camara lied to me.”
“Did she?” asked the Guardian. “If you did not have that stone I would not be here now.”
“Yet that does us no good,” cried Desperous. “What help are you here within the recesses of my mind. My men need you on the field. Where are you now, great guardian of the people? Are you blind to the horrors we face?”
“Oh, this is a moment of most dire consequence.”
“Yet you do nothing?” screamed Desperous.
Yansarian made no response. Instead, he began to pace around Desperous. His train of light collected about Desperous’s body like spooling thread.
Desperous eyed the Guardian with distaste. “If you will not aid my people, then at least grant me my release.”
“You overestimate my power,” said Yansarian. “The Sundered Soul wishes to converge, and so it has done. Behold, I am cloaked in its radiance.” A pulse of light surged through the strands, racing off to each of its individual owners. For a moment it seemed as if Desperous was wading in a sea of gold.
“But the strength of the soul is greater than any magic I can wield,” said Yansarian, almost ruefully. “There is something unique about the creaton soul; my race is unable to bind them with our energies.” Slowly the contrails of light waned to shadows, dim as glowworm tendrils in a cave. Desperous felt his own stomach roil. Yansarian placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder, as if he could sense Desperous’s anguish. “I apologize, Desperous, but I haven’t the power to separate you from your earthly form. You will be forever trapped to that body.”
“Then end the numbness,” begged Desperous. “Allow me to feel again. Do not leave me like this.”
“You wish to feel?” challenged Yansarian doubtfully.
“Like nothing else.”
“Justly so,” said Yansarian. “I will let you feel the ravages that this world has wrought upon you.”
Desperous’s mind tried to process the sudden throes of agony that lapped over his frame, but he was dumbfounded by the overwhelming sensation. His legs lay smashed and useless. His upper torso was twisted violently. He gingerly ran his fingers over his brow only to find that it had become a cavitated void. His fingers pressed against something damp and pliable beyond his fragmented skull. He gagged and coughed with sudden revulsion. No one could stay conscious through such agony, yet Desperous did not have the luxury of shock. Each heartbeat sent shuddering pains jetting through his body.
“The world is a brutal place,” said the Guardian.
Desperous barely heard the words. His cries of agony overwhelmed all else. He withered and curled fetal. His body convulsed; each quivering movement intensified the anguish. He wanted to beg the Guardian to end the pain, to return him back to the numbness, but he didn’t dare.
“With the Jeta Stone there is no difference between your thoughts and your words,” said the Guardian. “They are all mine to behold.”
With nauseating pain, Desperous gripped the Jeta Stone and tossed it into the void. “I don’t need you,” he yelled.
“Since when have you?” asked the Guardian dryly. “You are a godless man like your father before you.” He towered over Desperous’s ravaged figure, coiling upon his cloak of light like a snake. “Your father would have preferred that I died with the rest of my race. Yet I persist.”
“To plague us all with false promises and intrigue,” hissed Desperous.
“You used to be so brave,” said the Guardian, shaking his head in disappointment. “Yet I see your bravery has been replaced by fear and cowardice. What happened to you, Desperous?”
“I did my part,” cried Desperous, his mind screaming for relief. “I gave up my life. I awakened you so that you would end this war.”
“Yet it will not be enough,” said the Guardian. “I am not the one who will instill bravery into the hearts of your men. I am not the one who will carry them through the chaos.”
The image of his leaderless men on the battlefield came rushing into Desperous’s mind. They had put every faith in him, and now he was gone. His heart fell heavy with shame.
“Are you beginning to see now, Desperous?” asked the Guardian. “Confront your pain, then multiply it a millionfold, for this is the fate that awaits Laveria. Strand by strand, the web will be undone.”
“Return me to the field,” said Desperous. He slowed his breaths, gaining mastery over his quaking frame. “Let me lead them.”
“The future of Laveria is uncertain,” said the Guardian, ignoring Desperous’s bargain. He waved his hand, drawing forth a glowing orb and holding it close to Desperous’s face. “You need to see something.”
Bently’s bloodied image suddenly flashed across the surface of the orb. Desperous stared at it wide-eyed, the sight causing him to cry out in horror.
“Your hope of saving some has already passed.”
For a moment Desperous thought it was a ruse, one of the Guardian’s tricks. But as he watched Bently’s cape become sodden with blood Desperous knew it was no illusion. This was the world as it was, and Bently was gone, damned to oblivion like so many others. With tears blurring his vision, Desperous turned away, unable to bear the image any longer.
“The powers of the enemy are immense,” said the Guardian. “He has won the hearts of many who seemed true.”
Suddenly, the Jeta Stone reappeared in Desperous’s broken grasp. Its normally dull hue was replaced by a shimmering brilliance. He tried to pull the stone closer, but the pain of shattered bone against raw flesh caused him to recoil.
“The peoples of Laveria will be spent on this day; their grand armies doomed to the afterlife. Never again will such a force be mustered. If you fail, the forces of your enemy will march across this land without restraint.”
“What of you, what of your promises of salvation?” challenged Desperous. “Will you deny our call? Will you not come to our aid?”
Yansarian said nothing in response. He clasped Desperous’s shattered hands in his own, forcing Desperous’s fingers to close around the stone. Yansarian leaned close and whispered woefully into Desperous’s ear. “Do not count on the strength of the gods to overcome these terrible grievances.”
The Guardian’s face rapidly faded into the nothingness, becoming little more than a trail of light in the void.
“Wait,” cried out Desperous. But no reply came; the Guardian was gone.
Desperous hovered in the shadows of his mind. A bitter cold swept over his broken form. He was utterly alone. He tried to crawl forward, to where he knew not.
“Guardian!” called Desperous.
Only silence.
Desperous’s hand began to burn. First warm, then hot, then so severe it felt as if he were holding the core of the sun in his grasp. With great effort he shifted his bulging eyes to his hand, finding that his fist was glowing. The red muscle and bone beneath the flesh could be seen clearly. Aghast, Desperous thrust open his palm and light shot outward. The blinding pain instantly vanished, replaced by waves of heat that filtered over his body and pumped through his veins. It was in this moment of ecstasy that he suddenly felt compelled to rise, and as he gained his feet he realized he was once again whole.
A voice drifted to him as if carried by a breeze. “The fate of Laveria now lies in your hands, Prince Desperous. Do not falter in your cause.”
CHAPTER
XIII
HIGH TOWER
To win and to lose in one grand moment was a bitter reality Rancor was finding hard to stomach. His chief rival was dead, the throne was his without challenge, yet here he was locked away beneath the east tower of his palace. Beside him sat his father, another man who had played the game and lost. “A line of losers,” muttered Rancor ruefully.
The turnkey guarding the cell momentarily stopped his work and tilted an ear in Rancor’s direction. Gauging that Rancor had said nothing of importance he returned to his paperwork. The man was loyal to the Council, and Rancor was certain any words that passed between him and his father were being reported.
Rancor almost laughed at the thought. Nochman and Rancor had hardly spoken since he arrived to the prison. Nochman felt betrayed and Rancor could not find the words to express his own anger. So the two sat in sullen silence, unwilling to address the rage that ate at their souls. Rancor was unsure what exactly it was that he and his father were waiting for. Perhaps word that the enemy had been driven from the field. Or maybe a message that the Council had been overthrown, and Rancor reinstated. Or worse yet, a sign that the city would soon fall. Maybe then they would have the courage to confront the chasm that divided them.
Two guards entered the cell block. Rancor found it woefully ironic that the High Tower guards still bore the tri-rays crest upon their livery. A brazen gesture that was likely a mocking stroke from the Council. The two new arrivals conversed excitedly between themselves. Evidently, something had happened or soon would. Rancor walked to the bars of his cell and listened.
He could only make out a few words about an attack. The guards spoke quietly, and he missed most of what they said. Finally Rancor could take it no longer. “What news do you have?”
“You will mind your business, High Lord, and we will mind ours,” said one of the guards, having the courtesy to call Rancor by his proper title.
After a lifetime of being in control, Rancor felt helpless. Infuriated, he smacked his hands against the coarse iron bars. “One day I will not be in this cell.” He jutted his hand between the bars and pointed at the guard with an intent that could not be mistaken. “Those who betrayed me will be held accountable.”
The guard gave Rancor a harsh eye but said nothing in response.
The second guard gave in. “I say this not because I have to, but because you have the right to know. The coalition army has gathered. The battle has begun.”
“Then today will settle our fates,” muttered Rancor as he slunk back to his seat. A pain pounded through his head. He couldn’t stand the fact that he was locked up in a cell when he should be leading his men on the field. This was not where he belonged.
Soldiers began to filter in and out of the cell relaying updates to the guards. Rancor could only gather small parts of what was being said about the battle. The Luthuanian army had taken the offensive against the enemy’s central mass. Heavy casualties atop the city walls. The bombardment had intensified, and the southern slums were engulfed in flames. He wished he could know more.
“Guard,” called Rancor to one of the vigilant soldiers. “Who leads the Luthuanians on the field?” He hoped to hear General Bailrich was in charge, but he had an intense worry that the Council had appointed one of their loyal generals, none of whom were known for their battlefield prowess.
“Prince Desperous,” said the guard, without shifting his eyes to Rancor.
“My brother!” exclaimed Rancor, looking confused. He glanced to his father, who had the same queer expression. “Desperous has returned?”
The guard would say nothing more in response.
Nochman rose from his seat and walked with a halting step toward his son. Nochman had not fared well during his imprisonment. His hunger strike only ended after Lordess Farsidian was dead. By then he had lost far too much weight. Wasted skin drooped from his arms and neck. His thinning hair was disheveled. His face had become skeletal, studded by sunken eyes that lacked their once vibrant sheen. The man’s dignity was lost. Rancor had a difficult time seeing his father like this, knowing that he was responsible.
Nochman spoke so only Rancor could hear his words. “If Desperous has returned, and his mission is fulfilled, the Guardian may be close. He will seek out the Orb.”
“Would you give it to him?” asked Rancor, thinking of Evelyn and the promise he had made her.
“We will see when the time comes,” replied Nochman. His attention was grabbed by a low bang outside the door.
“You’ll be hung for this!” shrieked a voice from the other side.
“I haven’t a worry of that happening,” growled a familiar voice in return.
Suddenly, the door was thrown wide, and in marched General Waymire with a certain swagger to his step. To his rear were two Capernican soldiers and an unlucky guard who was being held captive at the tip of a sword.
Wood clattered against stone as the sentries overturned their stools and reached for their blades, but a low whistle from Waymire stilled their hands. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said the general. He unsheathed the broadsword he used as a walking stick and jabbed the point into the neck of the captured soldier, causing a rivulet of blood to trickle from the elf’s jugular.
The guards wavered, and then surrendered, chucking their weapons into the far corner of the room. Waymire grinned like a drunkard, motioning toward Rancor and Nochman. “Let them out.”
One of the guards nodded dumbly and rummaged through his keys. The heavy bolt turned with a click and Nochman came bustling out, chiding the guard as he went. “Shame on you.”
Rancor left the cell, just pleased to be through with the ordeal. However, upon looking at Waymire’s ragtag rescue party, he doubted they would be free of the cell for long.
“Hardly the rescue party I sought,” said Nochman as he eyed the Capernicans with disquiet. “I would rather stay locked in my cell than wager my life with you three in this hornet’s nest.”
“We are three Royal Guardsmen and a queen,” corrected Waymire smugly.
Evelyn sheepishly peeked into the cell.
More like three Royal Guardsmen and a witch, thought Rancor. Evelyn was dressed all in black; black pants, a black tunic rolled at the sleeves, and even a black breastplate. Her hair was plaited and knotted in a bun. On her hands she wore gloves that had been soaked in some fluid. Rancor gave her a knowing nod. It was time for him to fulfill his promise.
“Your Grace,” said Rancor, performing a half bow.
“High Lord Rancor,” replied Evelyn with a knowing nod.
Waymire locked the guards into the freshly vacant cell before explaining his motives. “The gate has been breached, my lords. Carrions are swarming into the city.”
Rancor struggled to keep his cool. “What sort of numbers are we looking at?”
“Thousands,” said Evelyn, shaking her head grimly. “The city garrison will not be able to hold back the flood.”
“Then you have come here to what end?” questioned Nochman.
“The Orb,” said Waymire. He spoke quickly, urgency resounded in his voice. “Madness has seized the Council. They fear the end is near. They plan to sue for peace and offer the necromancer the Orb. My spies overheard this just moments ago.”
“Your spies?” Nochman glowered, not fully buying Waymire’s intent.
“I have done what I needed to do for my land,” said Waymire, taking on a defiant tone. “And yes, that means that there are men amongst your court who have provided me with information. Today it has worked to both of our advantages.”
Rancor nodded, outwardly accepting Waymire’s point as the truth. But in his heart he knew the true reason Waymire and Evelyn had come. It was time to give Evelyn the Orb. The battle had commenced, and men were dying every second. Any hesitation would only lead to more needless death.
“Where can we go?” said Nochman dubiously. “There are few places to flee unseen.”
“Men of the Council will be on their way soon,” said the general. “Considering the direness of the situation, we can only assume they will use any force necessary to discover the whereabouts of the Orb. So by all means, if it pleases the lord, you may remain here and await your executioner. Or you may come with us. We don’t need to flee. We simply need to take the Orb out of the situation. Thatcher has sent one of his clansmen to fly the Orb from the city.”
“Yes,” said Waymire. “I have heard that as well. But the Guardian did not come with him. For now we need to keep the Orb hidden, and in safekeeping, so that if the Guardian does return there will still be a chance.” Waymire was playing his part so convincingly, Rancor was left to wonder if the General didn’t know of Rancor’s deal with Evelyn.
“We cannot allow the Council to turn the Orb over to the enemy,” said Evelyn sternly.
“Even if that means letting my city fall and burn?” challenged Rancor, baiting his father along.
Nochman laid his hand on Rancor’s shoulder. “Yes, Son. Even if it means the death of this city.” His face became shadowed with despair, as if accepting they would all soon meet their doom. “We must go while there is still time.” He led them from the cell with sudden purpose.
Rancor collected one of the discarded swords and joined Evelyn at her side.
Evelyn’s face was fraught. “I am asking you to betray your father,” said Evelyn quietly.
“And he is asking me to betray my people,” said Rancor. “This is what must be done. How much of what Waymire says is true?”
“Most,” replied Evelyn. Her eyes showed the terror of the situation. “The lower ward is overrun. The people are falling back to the walls of the old city.”
“Are you ready?”
She looked at her gloved hands, the fine fabric caked in layer atop layer of soot. She closed them into fists. “I hope so, Rancor. For if I am not...” Her eyes shifted askance, blinking away her fears.
Rancor swallowed his own uncertainties. It would either work, or he would learn to regret his choice in the final moment of his existence.
Rancor had long wondered where his father had hidden the Orb of Azure. When asked of its whereabouts, Nochman would always respond with the same simple answer. “It’s safe.” So when they did not leave the confines of the palace, Rancor was not entirely surprised. It made sense. There was hardly a safer place in Luthuania than this building. Its exterior was always under heavy guard, and there were rooms that not even Rancor was able to access until he was high lord.
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 13