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

by Lee H. Haywood

  Rancor’s face blanched but his arm didn’t move.

  “General Waymire Manherm,” snapped Evelyn, as she stamped her foot onto the ground. “You don’t have to do this.”

  The tip of Waymire’s sword drooped ever so slightly.

  Evelyn’s mind raced as she tried to conjure forth the loyal man she knew was hidden somewhere within this rash drunkard. She took on a pleading tone. “This is not the man who faithfully served his king his whole life. This is not the man who came to my side when the mobs rose up against my family. That man would never betray his liege.”

  “I told you to be quiet,” muttered Waymire lachrymosely.

  “Your queen is ashamed,” said Evelyn, her voice rising in fury. “Your wife would be ashamed.”

  Waymire struck her across the face with the back of his mailed hand. A strobe of light filled her head, and she was sent sprawling across the floor. In a momentary daze, she raised her hand to her mouth, finding blood purging from her split lip. “You...you will have to answer for this on the other side,” stammered Evelyn.

  Waymire ignored her. He barked brusquely. “Rancor! Put out your damn arm!” Everyone jumped. Waymire jabbed his sword point deep into Rancor’s throat to emphasize the point.

  Rancor nervously outstretched his arm.

  Waymire lifted his sword and made ready to strike.

  “I’ll give you until the count of three,” hissed the general. “Then I take your son’s hand.”

  Rancor’s lips were trembling, yet somehow he found the courage to yell out to Nochman. “Don’t reveal it to him, Father!”

  “One...two...three...”

  “No!” screamed Nochman, flailing his arms madly. “Halt! I’ll tell you.”

  “Where?” said Waymire hotly, his sword still held threateningly above his head.

  Nochman let out a sigh of defeat and for an instant jerked his eyes across the room.

  It was all Waymire needed. He smiled. “Your eyes have deceived you.” He shoved Rancor aside, but Evelyn was immediately there, throwing her body in his way.

  “Your queen commands you to cease this madness.” For an instant their eyes met. She didn’t know the face that was staring back at her. The valiant man she had once known was no more. So this is what hopelessness looks like, thought Evelyn, as she caught a glimpse of eyes wreathed with red. Here stands a man truly broken.

  Waymire looked at his feet, perhaps overcome with shame. “Bless you, lass, I do love you.” He clumsily pawed away the trickle of blood that ran down her chin. “You’re as tough as they come, Evelyn. But did you ever really believe a mongrel Kari would be allowed to sit the Throne of Caper?” He shook his head sadly. “If the Fates were kind, and you truly could be my queen, I would be doing all of this for you. But it will never be so. I’m sorry.” He reluctantly placed the flat of his sword against her chest and gently guided her aside.

  Heartbroken, Evelyn looked at her soot-stained gloves and remembered the countless hours he had sat at her side while she practiced channeling the Sundered Soul. All a lie. All for naught. She collapsed to the ground in utter defeat. Waymire didn’t even glance at her as he walked by.

  He began to tap his sword in intervals along the hard brick wall. Each tap brought a solid ring. Evelyn wondered if he was looking for a hollow spot, but the grin on the general’s face told her otherwise. He slid his sword to the edge of the ornate mirror.

  He tapped the glass once and then reared back, smashing his sword into its face. Shards rained to the floor in a cascade of silver. Instead of striking brick, his blade found a hidden crevice that was hewed into the wall.

  Evelyn gasped in dismay.

  Resting within the alcove was a spherical gem set atop a golden pedestal. Although it did not look as Evelyn had expected, it needed no introduction. The object was little greater than the size of a fist. It was glossy, polished to almost the same sheen as a looking glass, and it appeared to be filled with quicksilver. The fluid rippled from one hemisphere to the other in perpetual motion. Waymire grasped it like a child greedily snatching a toy.

  How does one touch the light, thought Evelyn woefully, as she watched Waymire clutch the prize she had sought her entire life. She had existed for one reason, and somehow she had failed, betrayed by the man who had raised her like a father. She wanted to chide Waymire, to tell him to hold it with more care, yet somewhere deep down was a more murderous thought; that he might mishandle the orb and accidentally unleash the torrent, blasting them all into nothingness. She would welcome that conclusion with open arms.

  Waymire slipped the Orb into his pocket.

  “The Orb is not yours to possess,” said Nochman bitterly.

  “Oh, I have hardly a use for it myself,” sneered Waymire, suddenly enlivened by his possession of the Orb. “But to the person who desires it, it is worth more than all the gold in the world.”

  “It is not a tool for barter,” snapped Nochman. “It will be the doom of us all.”

  “The doom for some, most assuredly,” said Waymire. He was now outside on the balcony, waving furiously up at the sky. Satisfied with whatever he had done, he returned to the room. “But for my people, it will be nothing short of our salvation.”

  “I thought you were a friend to our cause,” said Rancor. “I thought you had honor, but now all I see is cowardice. You have made a deal with a demon.”

  “You haven’t the slightest clue,” snapped Waymire, lunging out aggressively and pointing his blade. “You didn’t see your land on the verge of collapse. You didn’t see your people dying on the streets. But you will, soon enough, you all will.”

  There was a noise outside and Waymire quickly glanced out to the balcony.

  “So you condemned your own king and men to the chopping block?” accused Nochman.

  “No,” yelled Waymire, turning his attention back toward his accusers. “Never. I took the lesser of two evils. I could either let this enemy sweep us all into oblivion, or I could try to save those that I could. You can’t see the logic, not yet, but you will. In time you will all understand my decision.”

  “You plead your case as if you can somehow justify your treachery,” said Evelyn. She still believed that somewhere within Waymire’s clouded mind there was a good man. “There is no forgiveness for the transgression of betrayal. You have sentenced countless to death with your deception.”

  Waymire grinned painfully. “My deception? I’ve been little more disingenuous than you, Evelyn. Does your elf friend know that you intended to take the Orb for yourself?”

  “No,” lied Evelyn. “I was going to use it to save us all. Man and elf alike.”

  “And you, Nochman,” continued Waymire, ignoring her rebuttal. “You are the lord of treachery. I tell you, before this is through, your crimes against humanity will be paid pound for pound in elven flesh.”

  “What crimes?” demanded Rancor.

  “Your betrayal at the Nexus.”

  Nochman didn’t blink at the accusation. He seemed to know precisely what the general was talking about.

  “The Order’s revolt?” cried Rancor in disbelief. “That was decades ago.”

  “Spite does not always ease with time,” snarled Waymire. That’s when it suddenly made sense. Waymire’s wife, his hope of a family, his dream of a future worth living, it had all died in the Nexus that summer day. “When the Order attacked, we were taken completely by surprise. They consumed us all, not just the men. The women, the children, all were fair game. The cries of anguish. The dead and dying. You sold us out, elf. I have never forgotten.”

  “Yet now you would ally yourself with them?” challenged Rancor.

  Waymire laughed at the notion. “The Order? Never. You don’t understand yet. You’re not dealing with the Order. You’re not dealing with that damned necromancer. This is something far beyond your scope. But soon enough you’ll see.”

  As if on cue, there was a crash outside, followed by the sound of heavy claws clacking against stone. An undead
dragon stood perched on the balcony. Waymire’s ride had arrived.

  “Hurry,” called the dragoon rider. “My sire awaits.”

  “One moment,” shouted Waymire holding up his hand. He approached Rancor menacingly, his blade held aloft. “I have longed for the day when I could repay you in kind, Nochman. Now you will see your family bleed and die before your eyes.”

  Waymire stabbed. Yet Nochman moved with surprising speed, thrusting his body between his son and the blade. He received the strike instead of Rancor. The blade sunk deep through the soft flesh below his ribs. For a moment, the two stood inches apart, their eyes locked.

  Despite the blade in his abdomen, Nochman held his face in a stoic mask. “Has your vengeance been exacted?” hissed Nochman through clenched teeth.

  Waymire growled like a madman and plunged the blade deeper, drawing close to Nochman’s ear. “You spent your entire life trying to save something that had been doomed from the beginning. Know now that your efforts have been in vain, for a new era has come. The Jetaees Op’mat has returned.”

  Nochman’s eyes flared wide, his stoic facade tumbled away.

  Waymire yanked his blade clean from Nochman’s body, sending blood splattering against the gray stone floor. Nochman slumped weakly to his knees and was caught by his son.

  “You will be betrayed like all before you,” yelled Rancor.

  “We’ll see,” said Waymire. With that, the general leapt upon the awaiting undead dragon and disappeared into the sky in a flurry of flapping wings.

  Rancor wailed pitifully, wrapping his dying father in his arms. Evelyn rushed to his side, but Rancor shoved her away, his face twisted with anguish.

  Evelyn looked out from the balcony. Upon the field before the city the slaughter continued as it had before. The soldiers of Laveria continued to fight as if hope still remained. But it was not so. The fires within Luthuania now burned unchecked, and black smoke belched into the air, choking the sky. The sun once again fell behind a veil of shadow. Faraway, on windswept wings, the undead dragon bore the Orb of Azure across the horizon. All hope was lost. The enemy had won.

  CHAPTER

  XVII

  THE HEIR APPARENT

  Thatcher swooped into the encampment and discovered he was too late. The necromancer had fled. Around the outskirts of the encampment the creaton and carrion ranks continued to wage their savage war. But the battle had moved on from this patch of field, leaving only its scarred remains. The tents were devastated almost beyond recognition. The bodies of creatons and carrions alike had been crushed into the mire by the stamping feet of dueling giants. The shattered figures of half a dozen undead dragons lay twisted amongst the ruins, while in the distance a few still lumbered aimlessly about, having returned to mindless states without their dragoon handlers.

  Many of the dains of the Batofew and Avofew clans had already gathered in the clearing. All expectantly shifted their eyes to Thatcher as he landed in their midst. They look to me for guidance, Thatcher realized. They expect Baelec’s heir to lead.

  “What of the necromancer?” asked Thatcher, taking charge of the situation, and finding it came with ease.

  “He’s gone,” growled an Avofew, who bore a deep cut to the head. “I saw several undead dragons take to the skies. He was likely with them.”

  A pair of weary Batofews approached from the far side of the encampment. Their eyes were grave. “Dai Thatcher,” began one, granting Thatcher a title he had not yet earned. “Marshal lies dying to the east.”

  Thatcher’s belly raged with fire. “What? Take me to him.”

  Marshal lay contorted on his side. He was alive, but the violence done against the dragon was severe. His normally crimson scales had been made black from fire. His barrel chest rose and fell irregularly, revealing with each draught of air a ghastly split in his hide that cut to the bone. Thatcher was forced to choke back his anguish as he examined his friend’s ravaged body. Marshal would not survive.

  A leader is stalwart, Thatcher told himself.

  Marshal must have sensed their approach, because his exposed eye shifted slightly. The eye was bloodshot, cobwebbed with burst blood vessels. Marshal was blind.

  Thatcher gently nudged his friend with his snout. “Marshal, it’s me, Thatcher. Can you hear me?”

  Marshal nodded weakly.

  “Did you see where the necromancer went?” Thatcher wanted nothing more than to care for his kindly old friend, but he knew it was too late. The necromancer was what mattered now.

  “West,” said the giant. His voice barely rose to a whisper, yet the bass that emanated from his throat shook the earth. “To the Nexus...to Yasmire Tower.”

  Thatcher turned to the dragons gathered to his rear. “The enemy has fled to his fortress, and for now he is separated from much of his army. We must strike while we can. I cannot overstate the direness of the situation. We will be entering a hornet’s nest and are outnumbered manyfold.”

  “I’ll fly with the son of Dai Horan wherever he goes,” yelled one.

  “In the memory of Dain Baelac,” cried a pair from the Batofew clan.

  “For Marshal,” hissed another.

  The air swooshed and boiled as one by one they took to the sky, their purpose set. They would either kill the necromancer or sacrifice themselves trying. Thatcher placed his palm against his friend’s forehead. Marshal had grown still, yet a gurgled voice halted Thatcher’s wings from stirring.

  “Thatcher...”

  “Yes.”

  “Camara, if you see her again...”

  “I understand,” said Thatcher, his voice catching in his throat.

  “Fly true.”

  “I’ll make him pay for this,” said Thatcher, drawing close to make sure Marshal could hear his final message. “Fly true, my friend.”

  Marshal’s frame shuddered one final time and then froze, never again to move. The giant’s web had come unspun. Marshal passed on to the skies of Elandria.

  • • •

  Dolum watched as the dragons disappeared beyond the western horizon. With them went his hope and his heart. “May the gods protect you,” whispered Dolum. He impulsively looked down at his left hand, finding the flesh pale and marked. Which gods did he pray to? He squeezed his hand a few times, trying to work the stiffness out of his flesh, trying to distract himself from the tug of war on his soul. He solemnly bowed his head.

  “They’re abandoning us,” cried a distraught soldier.

  “No,” said Dolum, quick to correct the soldier before the lie took hold amongst the men. “They go to partake in a fight we creatons can never win.”

  King Byron smacked the shoulder guard of Dolum’s armor. “That they do, lad. Now let us see what part we can play here on the field.”

  While much of the necromancer’s entourage of phirops had fled with the proconsul, a few still dotted the battlefield, fighting like madmen against staggering odds. One such phirop had been singled out by a division of Halgan soldiers. Spearmen were trying to hem in the battlemage with little success, and already a swath of destroyed bodies lay about his feet.

  Seeing this from afar, Byron pushed through the ranks of milling men and came to the forefront of his spearmen. He openly challenged the phirop. “The King of Halgath challenges you to single combat!” belted Byron for all to hear. He approached the phirop, clacking his maul into the palm of his mailed hand.

  The phriop turned to face Byron, sneering venomously. “Finally, a foe worthy of my skill,” said the man. The archaic script tattooed across his cheeks began to shimmer with light, and he shifted his weight; his body coiled like a snake.

  “You are beneath me,” grunted Byron. “But I will face you all the same. Thuggery must be checked.” He collected a shield from one of his men and swung it, testing its weight.

  The phirop leapt like a striking panther, spinning his twisted scimitar for Byron’s throat. Byron hardly had time to raise his shield in defense. Although the shield was made of heavy bronze, it could not
withstand so forceful a blow. Metal was rendered in half, and the blade cut through to the flesh beneath. Byron fell back in pain. The phirop swung again, slicing across Byron’s left breast. The honed edge of the scimitar cleaved through the steel breastplate as if the armor were cast of tin. Blood purged from the resulting wound.

  Dolum cried out in horror and tried to lunge to his uncle’s aid, but the quick hands of Captain Braddock held him back.

  “Let me go!” screamed Dolum.

  “No,” said Braddock, a voice of authority. “This dynasty isn’t ending here today.”

  Suddenly Dolum was back in the depths of the River Deep, as helpless as ever. He felt ill as he resisted weakly against Braddock’s hugging embrace.

  “Thus marks my first king,” said the phirop, as he prepared to deal Byron a death blow.

  But the fight had not vanished from Byron’s eyes, and when the phirop drew within range, Byron heaved his maul for the man’s head. The phirop was fleet of foot and stepped quickly to avoid the edge of the maul. Byron darted forward, smashing the remnants of his shield into the phirop’s face. There was a flash of blood and the phirop’s nose was turned upward like the snout of a pig. He grunted in pain, and the two stumbled to the ground, groping for control. The phirop’s superior strength quickly won. He dealt the king a blow with the steel toe of his boot, this time to his soft mailed underbelly. Byron doubled over, his face twisted in pain.

  The phirop rose and confidently looked over the gathering of Halgans. “Your king has defied the authority of the Order. Instead of rejoicing the Shadow’s return and the coming of a new era, you resist the inevitable.” He poised his blade above Byron’s neck and halted a moment, wiping blood from his contorted nose. “Who amongst you is so bold as to make the same mistake?”

  In his blusterous speech, the phirop failed to see Dolum wiggle free of Braddock’s firm grasp like a man possessed. He did not notice the dwarf that was barely older than a child picking up the war maul of his father’s line. And suddenly, when Dolum lashed out with unbridled fury, the phirop had no time to react. The energy of the maul was amplified tenfold by the magic within. Bone was crushed, and the phirop’s scimitar broke asunder.