“They look like demons!” Lorace interrupted, finally making sense of the chaos of limbs and forms making up the main body of Dranna’s second panel.
Ralli nodded. “Aye. The fiend, Losqua, had created them from those whose minds he had already warped to his own will. Dranna did indeed slay Losqua, but he paid a terrible price.”
The panel depicted a scene similar to the demons they had fought in the nearby halls; the boy faced a hundred, or more, insane amalgamations of limbs, tentacles, and hooked claws. Over all, commanding with his arms upraised, stood the cloaked figure of Losqua.
“None of the creatures could strike the boy past the fantastic defensive power of Tzat Fek, which moved of its own will to intercept every attack launched against Dranna. Its merest touch stole the sight of any it was wielded against.”
“What happened to the boy, if he was so well warded by his godstone staff?” Oen asked with an apprehensive glance toward Tornin.
“When all of Losqua’s defenders had fallen, the fiend conjured up the image of Dranna’s mother, concealing himself within it. Dranna would not strike his mother, and in his hesitation, the wizard reached peacefully past the defense of the staff and warped the boy, transforming Dranna into a monster. As Dranna writhed in agony, he overcame the illusion by willing the staff upon himself, removing his own paralyzing sight so that he could strike the wizard down.”
“A horrible death, but he succeeded in his task,” Tornin said.
“Aye, Tornin, he succeeded, but he did not die, not until many years later. The warped Dranna had no voice, and he had taken his own sight. Vorallon led a group of us on a journey across half the world to bring Dranna back to Vlaske K’Brak, where he lived out the remainder of his life. We brought his mother to him as well, but she would not accept the abomination her son had become. She fled our hold in madness. Dranna died after having spent most of a man’s lifetime under our care during the very summer that Verth and his pilgrims arrived in the Keth valley.”
“You knew Dranna?” Lorace asked gently, wary of Ralli’s strained emotion at the telling of Dranna’s tale.
“I knew him and cared for him deeply. My son, Taggi, was a boy himself when I journeyed across Vorallon’s width with Prince Wralka’s father and Yarkin to bring Dranna home.”
Lorace embraced Ralli, careful not to let his chain touch the dwarf—as his adopted son, custom allowed this show of affection. Ralli accepted the embrace and returned it with a few stout claps upon Lorace’s back.
“He was a true hero of Vorallon,” Lorace said, remembering Yarkin’s warning about apologizing for the dead.
“Aye, that he was,” Ralli agreed, caressing the graven face of young Dranna.
“I understand now,” Tornin said in a very subdued voice. “The weight of my intervention in the Ritual is heavy upon me now.”
“You will do well, Tornin,” Oen reassured the young man. “I would be more worried about Captain Falraan, if I were you.”
Lorace turned to look at the remaining walls of the Hall of Heroes but there were no more marble panels in the chamber. “What of Sir Rindal? There is no carving of his tale.”
“No there is not,” Ralli said, gesturing toward the next vacant space upon the wall. “When Vorallon tells us his tale, the sculptures will be here, honoring his deeds forever. We believe his task must not be complete. There have been no other bearers of godstone.”
“There was a long span of time between Dranna and Sir Rindal, several lifetimes of men,” Lorace said.
“Those were great years, nonetheless. We built Halversome during that time, and we practiced in our arts. Only recently have we learned from the uneasiness of Vorallon that there is something amiss—something that has been growing worse since the time of Dranna’s battle.”
“Demons,” Lorace said, piecing the events together. “It is the arrival of demons. They did not exist prior to Losqua’s death did they?”
“Not to our knowledge,” Ralli replied with his beard drooping in a frown.
“Losqua’s spirit is in Nefryt providing the most corrupt and powerful of spirits with bodies of his own devising,” Lorace said.
Oen pierced him with his uncanny gaze. “You sound quite certain. Could the plague of demons be because of the dark magic of one man?”
“Ask Lord Aran, but it is the truth,” Lorace said, gesturing toward the carving of abominations fighting Dranna. “Look upon this and tell me that the demons we battled last night have no common aspect with what you see here.”
A gruff voice from the silent hall at their back startled them. “I believe you are right, Lorace.”
They turned to find Yarkin with Prince Wralka at his side.
“Those demons had much in common with what had been done to poor Dranna, I had not made the connection until hearing your words,” Yarkin continued with a sad smile. “There is an aspect of this scene that is missing. Ralli knows of it, as did Wralka’s father, but they were sworn not to speak of it.”
Ralli gave Yarkin a startled look. “You are going to tell them?”
“What is this about, Yarkin?” Prince Wralka asked.
“Vorallon wills it, but I know not why,” Yarkin said to Ralli before turning to Wralka and Lorace. “After we found Dranna, we gathered the remains of Losqua and his abominations to burn them. In the wizard’s decaying hand was a chunk of black stone, in appearance it was similar to obsidian. Vorallon bade us not to touch it, he directed us to build a fire on top of it where it lay, the hottest fire we could make. He also wished it kept secret, lest any other should seek out its source.”
Lorace nodded in understanding. “I am to seek out this source.”
“I prayed to him about your chain, Sakke Vrang, asking his guidance,” Yarkin explained. “Yes, I questioned the purpose of a chain of godstone. It is a weapon, Lorace, the greatest weapon the world has ever seen, I do not know how—he did not share that with me.”
Yarkin was silent for a moment, and Lorace prompted him to continue. “Is there more to tell of Dranna?”
“It was I who carved the story of Dranna upon our return, while Dranna yet lived, but was unable to speak or see. It was Vorallon’s song working through me that rendered the scene in the stone before you,” Yarkin paused again, clenching his large fists tight. “I saw his battle with Losqua. Dranna had no choice in the action he took. He could not strike the wizard, for the fiend was in his mind, manipulating his senses so that he truly believed his mother stood before him. Helpless, he faced complete failure and doom. Losqua read his mind and knew the boy’s plan—such was the power of his gift. That too has remained my secret. Vorallon turned Tzat Fek upon Dranna himself to blind the boy. This freed Dranna, and he was able to strike down the wizard.”
All remained silent for a moment after Yarkin had finished. Lorace looked down at the perfect links of the godstone chain in hand, not with fear, but understanding and respect.
“Did Vorallon share anything else with you?” Lorace asked.
“The burning you experienced was part of the destiny of Sakke Vrang,” Yarkin added. “No other godstone forged before it has had capabilities remotely the same. The pure have nothing to fear from its vengeance. The chain is unique of all godstone forgings, and it is bound to your spirit—you and the chain are one. I believe you are right, the burning you felt was the purification of the corruption in your flesh.”
“It was Vorallon that named the chain Sakke Vrang. It is my destiny now to carry out his vengeance,” Lorace said with a slight smile. “But before I do, I must eat and rest.”
“We leave you to your rest,” Prince Wralka said. “Yarkin and I must prepare for the funeral ceremony in the morning. Will you attend and give our fallen heroes your blessing?”
“My blessing?” Lorace asked before he understood what the dwarven leader was asking of him. “Yes of course, I will do whatever I can for them.”
“You would honor them by touching Sakke Vrang to them,” Yarkin said.
�
�None other shall touch it before those who fought so bravely for its forging have done so,” Lorace said with a gracious bow.
Wralka and Yarkin departed, and Ralli led Lorace, Oen, and Tornin from the Hall of Heroes to the traveler’s hall. The ornately carved avenues and chambers of Vlaske K’Brak they passed, swam in Lorace’s exhausted vision before he halted and asked to take hold of Tornin’s black sword.
“The Ritual took a lot out of me,” Lorace explained as he drew on the vitality of the blade.
“Sir Rindal passed out for three days, right there before the forge stone,” Ralli said with a smile wriggling his gray beard. “That you have endured it so well, and suffered pain Sir Rindal never had to bear, speaks highly of your strength, Lorace.”
When they arrived at the inn there was hot food and cool drink waiting for them. Lorace ate his fill without being fully aware of the meal. All he recalled from the remainder of the evening was Tornin and Oen putting him to bed, moving him carefully to avoid the coils of dull silvery chain dangling from one hand.
chapter 18
the queen’s plot
Twenty- Seventh day of the Moon of the Thief
-in Blackdrake Castle
Marek rode his horse hard into Blackdrake Castle, just as the first glimmer of dawn appeared over the eastern coast of Ousenar. Leagues behind him followed the giant man. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled with certainty, though he could feel none of the giant’s attention upon him.
He continued through the main hall, the hooves of his mount thundering on the grey stone floor of the outer castle, ignoring the shouting and swearing of everyone he forced to jump out of his way. Marek only reigned in his lathered horse when he reached the command post of Captain Andrigar.
“Jalton has fallen!” shouted Marek as he dropped from the horse and shoved two black armored men aside to pass into Andrigar’s office.
Andrigar stood tall, straight and severe, staring at Marek with a dire look designed to silence fools, but Marek was no fool. Marek was his most trusted scout, able to slip undetected through any terrain, and honest in his assessments of enemy forces.
“Explain,” Captain Andrigar commanded as he relaxed his gaze and waved off the two surprised guardsmen who had failed utterly in their duty to make sure he was undisturbed.
“A giant man walked through Jalton and killed everyone in his path. They crumbled to dust at his touch,” Marek reported, disregarding any respect to Andrigar’s rank. “Now he is heading toward Blackdrake.”
“Enick!” Andrigar shouted for his aide who stood outside his office, holding the reigns to Marek’s horse.
“Sir?” the young man asked, craning his head into the doorway.
“Have two hundred men of the legion ready to ride before I return from the Queen,” Andrigar ordered then turned back to Marek with a pointing finger. “You are coming with me to tell this to her.”
Captain Andrigar’s long legs took him swiftly down the spiraling concourse that descended to the level of the throne room and the Queen’s chambers. Marek, a much smaller man than his Captain, had to break into a trot at times to keep pace.
Andrigar hesitated out of earshot of the Queen’s guards who stood alert before her closed chamber door and turned to Marek. “If what you have told me is anything less than the absolute truth you have doomed us both, you know this?”
“I know, the threat is real,” Marek whispered. “The giant comes—I can’t feel him stalking me, but I know he comes. I sensed nothing from him, even when I stood in plain view and saw him turn his stride towards me. In that respect he was exactly like you, Andrigar.”
Andrigar rocked back on his heels.
Andrigar and Marek knew of one another’s gifts, though neither man ever spoke their secrets aloud, never shared knowledge of their gifts with any other. To Andrigar’s knowledge, not even General Moyan was aware of either the scout’s gift or his own, despite his uncanny brother, Hethal.
Marek could feel when someone was thinking of him, even if it were the slightest of thoughts. If he happened to rustle a dry leaf while lurking about an enemy camp, his gift would alert him if a sentry had heard. Conversely, he knew when he was completely unobserved by the absence of such alert.
When Andrigar met Marek, they were both young men in the Queen’s rogue army. Andrigar puzzled over the intense scrutiny Marek had given him, as though his skin were bright purple or he had an extra eye. After many such meetings, Marek finally confided in him. The scout had known of Andrigar’s gift as soon as they made eye contact with one another, and he felt no triggering of his own gift from the taller man. They became friends when Marek confided in Andrigar about his gift. Andrigar had had no knowledge that he himself was one of the gifted. They had both been loners, each with their own brand of paranoia, but they could relax when they alone were together.
It was a secret they shared, but kept closed to all others. The use of their gifts gained them an advantage in seeking a life with a semblance of control over one’s own fate, which was quite lacking in Zuxran society. With the coming of Scythe to Blackdrake, Andrigar saw the sudden and inexplicable change of any man who entered the sorceress’ presence, and took care to see that Marek was never one of those men.
His guts were in knots, but he had no choice. The Queen would demand to interview the scout who brought such dire news as a city lost. He had to risk his friend to Scythe’s spell.
Andrigar nodded with grimness equal to Marek’s, and then stepped up to the royal guardsmen.
“There is a threat to Blackdrake, rouse the Queen immediately,” He ordered, though he had no authority over the royal guardsmen who answered only to Queen Ivrane.
The guardsman he addressed nodded, and to the man’s credit, his eyes only widened a fraction at Andrigar’s temerity.
The guardsman’s voice rang hollow, as though declaring the Captain’s death sentence. “Please wait here, Sir,” he said, then sent one of his companions to rouse the Queen.
There were no serving women to pass the request to, no retinue of slaves—Queen Ivrane only surrounded herself with her royal guardsmen, and Scythe. In her madness she trusted no one, nor would she allow anyone to attend her.
When the knock at her bedchamber door woke her, she groaned to the resonating pain in her head and sat up too quickly, knocking an empty wine glass to the thickly carpeted floor where it bounced and did not shatter.
“What happens now?” she croaked.
“Captain Andrigar seeks an audience, Your Grace,” the guardsman’s voice came through the heavy wooden door. “He says there is a threat to Blackdrake.”
“Admit him to my sitting room and fetch the twice cursed bitch!” Ivrane shouted.
“Your Grace?” the guardsman could not keep from asking.
“Bring Scythe! You weak minded fool,” she shrilled as she rose to her feet. It did no good. She shook her head. Scythe’s charm never wore off, never weakened. Ivrane tried to convince herself that today would be the day that she killed the sorceress, with her bare hands if need be. She told herself this same thing every day, but never could she hurt the darling creature. Ivrane was mad and she embraced that madness—it was the only freedom she had from complete, drooling servitude.
She pulled on a less soiled gown and paused only long enough to put slippers on her feet to prevent the touch of any of the bare black stone that made up her prison of a castle.
When she entered her sitting room, Andrigar and another fighting man stood flanked by half a dozen of her royal guardsmen.
“Please sit, Captain, and your companion as well,” she said graciously and gestured toward a pair of overstuffed chairs. She smiled at the sight of Andrigar, one of the small joys she had in life was bringing Andrigar and Scythe together in the same room. Here was the one man she knew that did not fawn over Scythe. Ivrane’s smile stretched wide when it crossed her mind that perhaps this man could be the instrument of the sorceress’ destruction.
Ivrane dismissed her guar
ds quickly, knowing there could only be a moment more before Scythe appeared. They filed out obediently, leaving her with the Captain and his companion.
“Who is this?” the Queen asked of the unfamiliar man.
“He is my best scout, My Queen. His name is Marek. It is his report that brings me here.”
“That is fine, share your report once Scythe is here,” Ivrane said, then, with a cunning glint in her eyes, she turned to the scout. “What do you think of our sorceress, scout Marek?”
“I have not had the honor to meet her, Your Grace,” Marek answered.
“And you may regret meeting her today,” the Queen said hurriedly as she pulled open the door to her bedchamber. “Go in here and say not one word, make not one sound or your life will be forfeit.”
Marek hesitated only a moment, glancing toward Andrigar who only gave him the tiniest of nods, before rising and stepping into the mad Queen’s bedchamber.
Ivrane shut the door and turned back to Andrigar, smiling again as she crossed the sitting room to stand close to him. The Queen spoke so quietly, he had to strain forward to hear, “Andrigar, my trusted Captain. I will give you half my kingdom, if you would do me the small favor of killing the sorceress, Scythe.”
“My Queen?” he asked trying to disguise the natural distrust on his face. It was the wrong thing to say—her eyes blazed in the fire of rage and insanity the instant he spoke.
“I will make it easy for you,” Ivrane hissed these words, keeping her voice down and her rage under control with every effort that remained of her own will. “Just accept whatever commands I give, but you must find the opportunity to destroy her, you are the only man who is unaffected by her. You must save me! Tell anyone what I just asked of you, even your friend within the other room, and they will kill you in an instant, such is the strength of her hold on all Zuxra.”
Gifts of Vorallon: 01 - The Final Warden Page 18