Defenders of The Sacred Land: Book One of The Sacred Land Saga

by Tyson, Mark

  Tatrice’s face lit up. “Oh, very much so, mistress. I have not had a proper bath since Cedar Falls.”

  “Come along then,” Mavis directed.

  Mavis showed them to their rooms, and then Gondrial took the boys down the hall to Ianthill’s study while Mavis took Tatrice to the baths.

  At the end of the hall stood two wooden double doors carved with mosaics of ships and sea monsters. This end of the hall was somewhat dark, but as soon as Gondrial opened the doors, rich, natural light poured into the hall from the study. Ianthill’s study dwarfed the common room of the Tiger’s Head Inn in comparison. Bookshelves lined either side with a large desk centered under towering, glass windows. Two large divans were positioned at an angle in front of the desk, and a long table with eight chairs stood between the divans and the double doors.

  “Welcome to Adrontear,” Ianthill said. “Come and have a seat while we wait for Lady Shey and Enowene.”

  Dorenn, Vesperin, and Rennon walked to the divans and made themselves comfortable while Gondrial headed for a small table near the window and began packing a pipe.

  “Good idea, Gondrial,” Ianthill said. “Pack me one as well, will you?”

  The doors opened again, and Lady Shey entered carrying the tome she and Gondrial had taken from Symbor. “Sorry I am late.” Enowene followed in behind her.

  “Not at all, Shey, you are right on time. The boys have just arrived.”

  Dorenn felt the same strange feeling he had experienced in Signal Hill for a moment, as if the events he was witnessing were somehow wrong. He felt uneasy and squirmed briefly in his seat until he realized Rennon was watching him inquisitively. Dorenn shook his head to let Rennon know it was nothing of his concern.

  Lady Shey took the book and put it on Ianthill’s desk before she sat down on an empty divan.

  Ianthill opened the tome and poured over its pages and then slammed it shut with dissatisfaction. “Useless, I am afraid, my lady,” he said. “Naneden has placed this tome as a decoy. He has the original already in his possession.”

  “But the spells within worked, Master Ianthill. I used them,” Lady Shey said.

  Ianthill opened the tome again. “Oh, yes, work they do, but they are of limited usefulness, Naneden has seen to that. This book is little more than a novelty. The real spell is hundreds of times more powerful than this one.” He slammed it shut again. “Placed to throw us off the trail of the real tome for months. We have to step up our plans a bit.”

  “You mean we are to begin the training?” Gondrial asked.

  “Aye, Gondrial, it is time for preparation. We may already be too late in our decision. The Drasmyd Duil are already on the prowl, looking for our young men here.”

  “This should be good,” Gondrial said as he lit his pipe. He packed a second pipe and handed it to Ianthill.

  “Do you boys have any idea of the situation Symboria is in?” Ianthill asked.

  The boys looked at each other with puzzled expressions before Rennon finally spoke up. “Soldiers have been coming to Brookhaven whispering something about a coming war and possible invasion, but that rumor has been around as long as I can remember. Scarovia never makes good on the threat.”

  “Rightly so, young Rennon,” Ianthill said as he searched for a book on his bookshelves. “Dark minions called Drasmyd Duil have visited Brookhaven of late. These creatures where created by Toborne using ancient magic. Their numbers are few. There are many more Dramyds than there are Drasmyd Duil to lead them. Their purpose is to gather what information they can and report back to Naneden.” He selected a blue bound book and held it into the air, showing he had found what he was searching for, and he placed it on his desk. “This prophecy I open on my desk tells of the last and only hope of our known world.”

  “What kind of prophecy?” Rennon asked. “How can the future be revealed by a book? I am sure you have been sampling the ale of late.” Rennon held his hand up to his mouth in a mocking drinking gesture as he looked at Dorenn.

  “Rennon!” Dorenn hissed.

  “Well, Dorenn, what have we been doing these last few months? We should be home in Brookhaven preparing for Winterhaven Festival, not listening to the madness of wielders.”

  Ianthill raised an eyebrow, staring intently at Rennon until Rennon stood up in anger. “I will not sit down and shut my mouth. I will not stand here and be insulted.”

  Ianthill smiled smugly. “How did you know what I was thinking Rennon? I spoke no words.”

  Vesperin gasped. “He’s right. He did not speak.”

  “A trick, a simple trick he played,” Rennon insisted.

  “Trick! Tricks and sleight of hand, is that it, boy?” Ianthill’s words were venomous. “Sit down and hold your tongue, boy, or did I not speak clearly enough?”

  Rennon stood steadfast in defiance.

  Ianthill’s eyes narrowed. He exhaled a puff of white smoke, and Rennon sank down onto the divan.

  “Prophecy is just that, my boy, a prediction. Nothing in this world is an absolute certainty.” Ianthill paused and took another puff of his pipe. “However, prophecy does give us a map to follow when hope fails us.” He stood and looked out of his window to the bustling port in the distance below. “Hope is failing us.” He turned back to his desk and the tome. Gondrial went to his master’s side and placed his hand on the old wielder’s back.

  Ianthill closed his eyes. “The situation has become grave. Naneden possesses a power capable of granting him his goals. We are but a few, and we have to contend with madness, stupidity, and children.” He glared at Dorenn and Rennon.

  “Master, I realize we are few, but I have seen the potential in these simple folk from the mountains. Their upbringing is working against them, but I do believe there is hope in them yet,” Gondrial said.

  “I trust your faith in them is warranted, my friend,” Ianthill said, sitting behind his desk. He opened the book and read aloud. “In times of darkness, the land will divide once again, and from this division the Silver Drake will be called to action for the search of a new high king. Once her decision is made, there will be five and then seven.”

  “That’s a bit cryptic, isn’t it, Master?” Gondrial said.

  “Hold on, it becomes clearer,” Ianthill said with a grin forming on his lips. Dorenn knew Gondrial was lighting the old elf’s mood.

  “A boy will be brought to life by the gods combined will, another will unite the realms of forgotten lore, still another, of finer grace, will bring the knights of the drakes. The last shall reunite the knights of men.” Ianthill stopped and looked directly at Gondrial. “We need more time, and Naneden’s army stands ready.” Ianthill’s gaze became distant for a moment. “I don’t suppose you have a plan to stop an army from invading?” Ianthill said to Gondrial.

  “Ha,” Gondrial laughed. “And they say elves have no sense of humor.”

  “You do not have a plan then?” Ianthill asked.

  Gondrial sighed. “According to Enowene, Naneden’s army waits just over the Jagged Mountains, and if he has the tome, he will send his army to the heart of the Sacred Land while the hapless army of the West waits in the north and south passes. He will take the Sacred Land for himself before anyone can stop him. In addition, the Enforcers and even the general citizens will fight the use of wielders to aid them. Once Naneden has the Sacred Land, we will not have the power to dethrone him. Even if I had a plan, how would I implement it in time? I was hoping you would have a plan.”

  “Why is the Sacred Land so important?” Dorenn asked. “I thought it was a blackened wasteland. I have never understood why the Defenders patrol and guard it anyhow.”

  “Have you ever cleared a field of grass by fire, Dorenn?” Enowene asked.

  “Aye, I have seen it done many times. Why?”

  “What happens after you burn the field grass?”

  “It comes back greener than before.”

  “There is your answer, Dorenn,” Gondrial said. “The War of the Oracle took place a t
housand seasons ago, and the wielders stripped the land, now known as the Sacred Land, of all its magical essence, drawing upon it to fight the battle. No wielder has been able to draw much essence from the Sacred Land since the war. Now, after a thousand seasons, its essence will return, only it will be many times stronger than it ever was before. Whoever controls that land when the essence returns will rule absolutely.”

  “That is why we must take action. We have waited for far too long and underestimated Naneden,” Ianthill said, returning the book of prophecy back to the shelf.

  “There is one hope. If we could persuade the Defenders of the Sacred Land to aid us, we may be able to buy the armies some time to react to an invasion. After all, the Defenders are supposed to protect the Sacred Land from ill will,” Gondrial suggested.

  Ianthill puffed his pipe as he thought. “I can think of a few allies in the Sacred Land that may help us. The Defenders may not be strong enough in numbers to do much good against an invading army for long.” Ianthill took a deep breath. “We need to protect our interests and hide Dorenn and his friends away for now.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Dorenn spoke up. “I still do not understand our involvement. If you need strong men to join the Defenders in the fight to save Symboria and the Sacred Land, then we need to join the armies of the West and do our part. Hiding us away makes no sense. We could contribute much more by fighting.”

  Ianthill feigned a weak smile. “My dear boy, you still cannot see the larger picture here. You and your friends have a higher purpose in the scheme of events unfolding.”

  “I do not understand, sir.”

  “You will in time. You have not come here by chance and sorcery so that we might have the company of four youths from the mountains. We do not derive amusement by abduction. You four have a greater significance, and it is our responsibility to see that you remain safe.”

  Dorenn wanted to blurt out that he knew he was a descendant of Ardenia but held his tongue. He knew Rennon would not stay around much longer, but he respected Enowene’s wishes.

  Ianthill began pacing behind his desk. “We need to take them to Foreshome where they will be protected by the Sylvan elves. Sildariel and the Archers of Endil will keep them safe.” Ianthill put his hand on the black tome with silver runes. It is tempting to use this tome, but I fear it is enchanted. Each time you used it you may have alerted Naneden to your location. I will destroy this book, and we will travel most of the way by ship. In fact, I suggest we use the wielders way only under extreme circumstances. I do not wish to draw attention to the road we travel or our destination.”

  A knock on the door startled the old elf. “Enter,” he said.

  “Sir,” Mavis interrupted. “I beg your pardon, but a man requires your audience.”

  “Oh?” Ianthill lit up with curiosity. “What sort of man would be calling to my home this day?”

  “He is quite a frightening warrior, Master. He wears armor made of what appears to be red dragon scales.”

  “A dragon knight,” Ianthill said with enthusiasm. “Show him in.” He returned to his chair, a smile gracing his lips. “It seems our prophecy moves swifter than I imagined.”

  Chapter 12: Burnings

  Naneden clutched the edge of his huge, velvet chair as his attention darted from painting to painting on the walls of his study, his grey-blue eyes almost running up inside his skull. Naneden’s pale white face contorted hideously. He watched in fascination as the wall paintings slid and twisted. Battles that never took place raged on dingy tapestries, and ancient ancestors shook their heads disapprovingly, mocking him as he rocked back and forth on his throne-like chair. The colorful mosaics of his hanging tapestries moved and slithered like snakes in tall grass. Clouds blew across the ceiling in a storm of imagination as he nervously ran his hand through his oily, wild, black hair. He cut his eyes at one painting in particular, and in a sudden burst of anger, he rose up from his chair and screamed curses at the painting of his lover, Kimala.

  “I cannot hear you!” he yelled at her pale face. “What do you want of me?”

  “I want you to give me what you promised,” a voice said from behind him.

  Naneden whirled around to see Kimala standing in the flesh. All at once the paintings and tapestries went silent and stopped moving. “And what would that be, my pet?”

  “What do you see in that devious mind of yours when you stare at those paintings and tapestries?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Kimala slowly and seductively made her way to Naneden, placing her full red lips an inch from his ear. “You asked what I want.”

  “Aye, what?”

  “Power, my dear Naneden, power.” She recoiled giggling.

  “Ah yes, my precious Kimala, you poor thing. Always hungering for more no matter how much you are fed.”

  “Would you have me be any other way?” she said, tossing her jet-black, shoulder length hair out of her face with a flick of her slender neck.

  Naneden did not answer. Instead he left his chair and marched away from her into the forum of his castle. Naneden stood there with a maniacal smile as he gazed amusingly at a young, handsome woman who tilted her head sideways and licked the black wall near one of his bookshelves and clawed the side of her face with her hand. Naneden began to laugh as another man, in the far corner opposite the handsome girl, pounded his head on a large wooden table. “You are all positively mad,” he said gleefully.

  One man near the opposite entrance of the room stopped what he was doing to see why Naneden had come, and Naneden’s glee turned to anger. Naneden spoke through clinched teeth deliberately in a low, grumbling voice at the man. “You…are…mad!”

  The man’s startled glance converted into one of pain, and he quickly resumed burning his fingers with a candle, laughing with a high-pitched cackle.

  “Much better,” Naneden said, gleeful once more.

  Naneden the Mad picked out a book, decorated with silver bindings and red runes on the cover, from an isolated shelf and returned to his study with it. “Here is your power, my precious Kimala.” He began laughing hysterically. Kimala stared at the tome puzzled. A knock at the study door broke Naneden’s crazed laughter. A youthful man dressed in black entered the room.

  “Your grace,” the man in black said with a bow. “I hesitate to bother you, but Master Drakkius rides to the main gate.”

  Naneden’s horrified expression became somber as he comprehended the servant’s words. “Excellent, Dredor, see that he makes his way in here to me.”

  “As you wish, your grace,” Dredor said, bowing as he backed his way out of the study.

  A few moments later, a man dressed in crimson armor entered the study. His hard face was lined with sharp edges, and his brow tilted downward as if he were contemplating the best way to proceed with some evil task. His eyes were of a frightening nature, piercing, black, and cold. He entered the room, tossed his long black braid to one side of his armored shoulder, and gave Kimala a gaze commanding power, confidence, and respect. Kimala strolled seductively to the crimson clad Abaddonian and kissed him deeply on the lips. She stopped with an evil grin as she rubbed her lips from left to right with an index finger, licking the tip as she went along.

  Drakkius addressed Naneden with lurid disgust. “Do you not care that this wench so boldly defies you before your very eyes?”

  Naneden, barely glancing up from reading a passage in the silver bound book, replied stoically, “Hmm, what? Oh, Kimala, not at all. Her heart is as black as a lump of coal and just as cold. She goes to whomever she perceives has power, wealth, or both. I suspect she would kill me if it suited her needs.” Kimala smiled contemptuously. Naneden shut the tome with a thud and stood up from his desk. “Be gone from us now, wench, I will play with you later. Drakkius and I have much to discuss.”

  Kimala’s grim smile turned into a venomous snarl. “I am just as much a part of the plan as anyone,” she said, tapering off as she left the room.

  �
��You say far too much, Naneden. You are reckless as well as foolish.” Drakkius looked back through the still open door. “Why do you surround yourself with insanity? Does it cloak your own madness?”

  Naneden slammed his fist on the desk. “And you are far too presumptuous about things you have no mind for.” He took the book to his desk. “What of the army, is it ready?”

  “Aye, it is ready. What of the Silver Drake, have your servants found it yet?”

  Naneden grinned. “I know where it is, and I know how to use it; however, we must take Symboria before I can get my hands on it.”

  “How do you expect to capture it? It tore Toborne’s soul from his flesh just for trying.”

  Naneden laughed his raspy, low laugh. “I will control it.” He tapped the book. “I have the secret, the key; I am its master. Do not fear so, Drakkius. Have faith, have faith. If you keep up your end of the plan and assemble the army for the conquest, I will keep mine.”

  “I have assembled all of your foul creatures and some of my own, as well as Scarovian and Abaddonian troopers. The army stands strong.”

  “Good, good, I want you to lead it to the south pass first. I hear that the second tome I made no longer resides in Symbor. Drasmyd Duil tell of a band of wielders from Brookhaven that defeated an entire brood of Dramyds.” Naneden again pounded his fist on his wooden desk. “I want Brookhaven to fall first. Level the filthy village to the ground! Kill everyone within its wall, no prisoners.”

  “What of the armies of the West stationed near Brookhaven?”

  “They will meet you at the pass, of course, where I have a little surprise for them.” His eyes gleamed with madness. “As well as the rest of the Western army. When they meet our army on the march through Symbor, they will be ill-prepared for what I have planned.”

  Drakkius watched as Naneden moved his hand through the flame of a black candle on his desk.

  “The enemy knows of our army,” Drakkius stated coldly.

  Naneden looked up from the candle. “I know that. I would have it no other way.”