Storm of Divine Light

by Ernesto San Giacomo

  Lamortain grinned and nodded. He clasped hands with one of the Dwarves. “An excellent plan, Lord Thelloki.” Their voices dimmed again, and the visitors bowed and left.

  Several minutes later, the great doors creaked open to reveal Xantasia, silhouetted in the subdued light from the outer hall. She strutted toward the throne in her sultry, feline way. Connor and Sudalya, the youths who had watched the goblins burn, smiled and moved toward the door of the antechamber where Lamortain and Xantasia liked to “relax” with them. Sudalya glanced sideways at Xantasia and licked her lips.

  How different the youths had become in the last few weeks. Not long ago, they had been all innocence and naiveté. At first, fear and pain made them submit their bodies to the whims of the two dark mages. Now, love for carnal pleasure drove their existence, like all the others over the years. Especially Sudalya. Her walk had become slinky, almost mimicking Xantasia’s. Lamortain flashed an impish grin at them, as if amused by the sight of their newfound depravity.

  “You summoned me, my Lord, with an urgent message.” Xantasia drew close to the throne.

  Lamortain stretched out a hand to her. “Yes. We have business to discuss. A new apprentice is among us.” He beckoned with a finger. “Sudalya, come here.”

  Xantasia stared hard at the approaching youth. A jealous rage grew in her eyes. “Are you sure, my Lord?” She placed a hand on Lamortain’s leg and glided it toward his crotch. “Or is your judgment clouded by her other charms?”

  “The fragrance is within her – it saturates her blood,” Lamortain said.

  The sorceress broke away from him. With her eyes fixed on Sudalya, she drew her dagger. “Give me your hand.”

  Sudalya’s worried gaze teetered back and forth between the two dark mages.

  “Stop behaving like a child,” Xantasia snapped.

  With slow hesitation, Sudalya extended her hand. Xantasia grasped it and nicked the tip of the youth’s finger with the dagger. She squeezed the wound and several drops of blood fell into her hand. After raising her reddened palm to her nose, she inhaled deeply. Her eyes widened.

  Guilder shuddered. Whatever she’d gleaned from the scent of Sudalya’s blood must have either surprised or impressed her.

  A repulsive grin spread across Lamortain’s face. “Go into the chamber with Connor and wait,” he told Sudalya.

  “Yes, my Lord,” she said, and led Connor by the hand. Lamortain studied them, and waited silently for the door to close behind them. He refocused on Xantasia.

  An odd smirk grew on her face. “You don’t trust her. You don’t want her to know the truth about her great capacity for power.”

  “Not yet. Though I was considering an apprenticeship with Nebulon for her.”

  “No! She can’t be schooled by that old fool. He won’t be able to control her.”

  “I was merely considering it, that’s all. On further reflection, perhaps she should belong to you.”

  Xantasia opened her mouth but hesitated. Her jaw snapped shut and her eyes narrowed. She recovered quickly and bowed. “Thank you, my Lord. I will engrave upon her mind a sense of obedience to us. However, at the first hint of rebellion” – she locked her eyes on him – “I will destroy her.”

  “Agreed.” Lamortain sat back and scanned the room for his servant. “Guilder.”

  He moved toward his master with a bowed head. Memories of his own servant’s training flashed through his mind. The beatings, the sleep deprivation, the endless exposure to scenes of torture, all meant to deaden his humanity. This young girl would be made to endure all that, and worse. Sudden nausea hit him like a tidal wave, and he bit his lip to keep it down. Best not to dwell on such things, or he might go mad like poor Tronthy. Old Tronthy had seen too much and tried to run from the throne room, screaming. An orc guard skewered him as he crossed the threshold. Guilder would be lucky if he even made it that far.

  “Send young Connor to Hamish the blacksmith to be apprenticed. Tell Hamish the boy is to be trained up in the craft as a reward for his service to me.”

  “Yes, my Lord.” Connor was lucky, then. Hamish could be a tough taskmaster, but not as wicked as a dark mage. The boy would be blessedly far from the depravities of Lamortain’s court. Sudalya would not be so fortunate. “Shall I bring them out to you now?” When the master nodded, Guilder passed into the antechamber and reemerged with the youths in tow.

  “You stay here,” Xantasia told Sudalya. Guilder marched Connor off toward the doors.

  Lamortain held up his hand. “Guilder, wait here until we’re done.”

  Obediently, he halted Connor and faced the throne.

  “Where are they going?” Sudalya asked.

  “Quiet!” A short crack like a snapping twig echoed through the room. Xantasia had slapped Sudalya in the face so hard she stumbled. “You do not ever question Lamortain’s orders.”

  Guilder averted his eyes. Another blow brought out a yelp. Xantasia grinned maniacally at her. “Lamortain is my Lord and master. Repeat it!”

  “Lam – Lamortain is my Lord and – and master,” Sudalya said in a quivering voice.

  “You responded too slowly. And you lack conviction in your voice.” Xantasia grabbed her by the hair and forced the young woman to look at her. “I’ll show you the true nature of obedience.” She dragged Sudalya into the antechamber. “Guilder! Come here!” Dutifully, he ran in, leaving Connor gaping by the doorway. “Clean her up,” the mage commanded.

  Guilder dipped a cloth into a vessel and wiped the trickle of blood from Sudalya’s face. Then, on a dry portion of the same cloth, he wicked away her tears. And his own.

  CHAPTER 13

  SOFT FOOTSTEPS IN THE DARK

  CYRIL LEANED BACK AND SCANNED the sky. “The heavens call unto us to retire for the night.”

  “Who wants the first shift?” Dagorat asked. “Although I’d rather you gave me another dose of potion.”

  “No. I dare not give you more again so soon. It stays in the body for quite a long time.”

  Liberon edged forward. “I can take it and keep watch through the night.”

  Dead silence ensued. Cyril raised an eyebrow at Dagorat.

  “I’m perfectly capable of standing guard,” Liberon said with a huff. “Katrina snuck by me because I wasn’t guarding against intruders at the time. I know better now. Nothing will get past me.”

  Dagorat gave Cyril a wink and a subtle snap of his chin. The young monk had learned a lot on the road already, and seemed well aware of the danger facing them tonight. He’d stand a good watch. Cyril rummaged through his belongings, found the vigor potion and diluted it with some water in a drinking bowl. “Here. This will keep you awake until tomorrow night.”

  ***

  Liberon took the bowl and swigged the potion. He climbed up onto the driver’s bench while the others made up their bedrolls and settled down to sleep inside the wagon. Murmurs from the other camps faded into silence. Behind the horizon, the last orange glow of sunset dimmed and vanished. The grubby field became an isolated island of quiet in sharp contrast to the noisy, bustling days. The weight of the dark pressed in on him, and the long, lonely night stretched out ahead.

  Like the occasions when sleeplessness struck him in the monastery, he decided to pray and meditate while admiring the cosmos in the night sky. It was the wrong time for Morghens prayers, but he whispered them anyway. “The Light illumines my soul, my heart, my thoughts, and my words. I pray for those who lack the Light. Let the Light brighten their souls, fill their hearts with love, make their thoughts peaceful, and give kindness to their words.” He repeated the prayer three times, in keeping with the standard form of the Order.

  Afterward, he pondered what to do. For some reason, the prayer didn’t bring solace tonight. He decided to deviate from the custom of the Order and pray in his own words. In the dark of the night, he reached out to his nameless god. Why must we refer to You as the Light? Do You not have a name? I often wonder…

  A soft crunch cut off his
thoughts. He perked up his ears, trying to judge the distance. Was it quiet and close, or louder from farther away? Perhaps someone had bit into something crispy. Noise did travel in the nighttime stillness, after all. Again it came, louder and closer. Not a crunch. More like a footstep on a patch of dirt, near the rear of the wagon.

  Trying to be quiet, he slipped off the bench and crept along the side toward the rear. Tonight’s moon provided enough light to see. He watched his footing to avoid making any tell-tale crunches of his own. At the end of the wagon, he peeked around the corner. A figure clothed in black reached and grabbed the rear slat to heave himself up and in.

  Liberon jumped forward and landed a sharp jab to the stranger’s kidney. The figure collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air. His rasps split the stillness of the night. Footsteps from behind made him spin around. Another figure ran at him, knife poised to strike.

  Without thinking, the monk dodged and used the assassin’s momentum to toss him off-balance. The knife stuck into the side of the wagon. He grabbed the attacker’s wrist and twisted hard until a bone snapped. The man screamed in pain and fell to his knees. Liberon focused back on the first intruder, who had regained his breath and was trying to stand. Another kidney punch and two swift jabs to the face, and the man fell unconscious to the ground. He did the same to the one with the broken wrist. Breathing hard, he stood over the two limp figures and resumed a fighting stance, waiting for anyone else who might come.

  More footsteps in the dark faded away toward Blackfang’s camp. Dagorat leaped out of the wagon, brandishing his dirk. “Haarrrggghhh!” he screamed.

  Nerves still on edge, Liberon laughed hysterically. “You’re late.”

  Another crunch from behind made him spin around. Much to his relief, it was only Cyril climbing out of the wagon.

  ***

  By Korak’s cheesy feet. I’ll never hear the end of this, Dagorat thought.

  The mage chuckled at him. “Such cat-like reflexes. Now let’s try to do something useful. Get something to tie them up.”

  In the darkness, Dagorat fumbled through the wagon, found some rope, and bound the assassins’ hands and feet with the ease of long practice.

  Thudding hooves and clanking armor shattered the quiet. Two horses approached out of the night, and reared up in front of them. The riders – a sergeant, and a lieutenant, judging from her blue shoulder guards – dismounted and removed their helmets.

  The lieutenant’s long brown hair draped her shoulders. With her palm on the pommel of her sword and fingers stroking the hilt, she commanded, “Nobody move.” Glaring at them one by one, she focused on the two figures out cold on the ground. “We heard the shouting. Who’s going to tell me what happened here?”

  Cyril stepped forward. “We captured these two thieves.”

  “We?” Liberon said.

  “Piss off! We’re trying to sleep,” Katrina’s disembodied voice called from inside the wagon. “Why should we tell you anything?”

  The officer stalked to the wagon’s rear and glared inside. “Because I’m Lieutenant Kiralynn of the Royal Mentirian Guard.”

  Again, Cyril hastened toward her. “I’ll recount all events to you, Lieutenant.”

  Liberon sidled up to him. “Really?” he whispered. “How, since you slept through it all?”

  “Shh,” Cyril replied.

  “Watch and learn,” Dagorat whispered in the monk’s ear.

  A squad of eight foot soldiers arrived then, and surrounded the wagon. They planted their torches and angled their pikes outward to one side, creating an impassable perimeter.

  Kiralynn signaled to one of the troops and pointed to the men on the ground. “Watch them.” She marched over to Cyril. “Well?”

  The mage cleared his throat and stood a little taller. “First, let me say that it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Many people in Mentiria know me as Cyril the Wise.”

  Dagorat cast a covert glance at Liberon and rolled his eyes.

  Lieutenant Kiralynn angled her head and leaned closer. Recognition gleamed in her eyes. “Yes, you are. I’ve seen you before.” She wheeled around to her men and pointed to the attackers on the ground. “Arrest them. Bring them to the captain’s tent.”

  Liberon’s jaw dropped, and Cyril slipped him a wink. Four guards dutifully grabbed the assailants, slapped them back to consciousness, unbound their feet and pulled them upright. “Get moving,” one of them said. Wincing in pain, the prisoners obeyed and the little group marched off.

  Kiralynn studied Cyril. “What are you doing out here?”

  “We’re on an important mission for individuals of high personage in Mentiria.”

  “High personage…hmm.” She squinted one eye, then let it relax. “Come to the captain’s tent as soon as you can.”

  “Yes, of course, Lieutenant.”

  She mounted her horse. As an afterthought, she stared down at Dagorat and Liberon. “Your presence is not required.” With a tug on her reins, she wheeled her horse around. “Sergeant!” He ran up to her. “Stay here, and assign two men to escort Cyril to Captain Beltrane in safety. The rest of you will guard this wagon and its travelers for tonight.” She rode off, presumably heading toward the captain’s tent.

  “Care to explain?” Dagorat asked Liberon.

  He raised his shoulders and opened his palms. “They attacked. I stopped them.”

  “Where did you learn how to do that?” Dagorat shook his head and eyed Cyril. “And we were worried about him going to the Thieves’ Guild.”

  “It seems that young Liberon is more formidable than we thought,” Cyril said.

  “I don’t hear you explaining yourself.” Dagorat folded his arms and tapped a foot.

  “I learned the fighting arts in the monastery.”

  Dagorat shifted his focus from Liberon to Cyril and back again. “From them? Did you learn skull breaking before or after prayers?” He stared hard and pointed at Liberon. “You’re lying. I didn’t see any place for that type of training at the monastery.”

  The young monk bristled. “I’m not lying. There’s a sparring room on the second floor.”

  “Then how come you know how to fight and Maynard doesn’t?”

  “Not all of us train for fighting.”

  “Ah, yes,” Cyril said. “That makes sense. Remember, they are the Holy Order created by the warrior queen, Etheldreda.”

  Liberon nodded. “All monks of the Order learn the spiritual ways of The One. About half take the warrior’s path, while the others take the scholarly path.”

  “Therefore, Brother Maynard is a Spiritual-Scholar,” Cyril said.

  “Yes, and I’m a Spiritual-Warrior.”

  Katrina stuck her head out the back of the wagon. “Fascinating, but I’d like to get back to sleep.”

  “With the guards here, you can sleep, too,” Dagorat told Liberon.

  “I doubt it. Cyril gave me that potion to stay awake.”

  “That’s right. You’ll be awake until tomorrow night.” Dagorat grinned at him.

  “So sorry, young Liberon,” Cyril said. He addressed one of the guards. “I’m ready to speak with the captain.”

  Dagorat climbed into the rear of the wagon and listened to the footsteps of Cyril and the guards fade into the night. He glanced out the back. Their torches dimmed and then winked out in the distance. Liberon rustled around, resuming his place on the bench. Dagorat lay down next to Katrina, took her hand, closed his eyes and tried to drift into sleep.

  ***

  Led by the two soldiers, Cyril entered the Mentirian Guard’s massive camp. No wonder these caravans are never attacked, he thought. Ten supply wagons and more bivouac tents than he could count filled the area. As they approached the largest tent, their torches illuminated the Royal Crest of Mentiria emblazoned on the banners flanking its entrance.

  Lieutenant Kiralynn stood waiting for him. She nodded curtly, opened a flap in the tent and gestured for him to enter. He obliged, and she followed him in. The ten
t was enormous – maybe more spacious than his home. Though rugged, it also boasted a certain sense of luxury. Large overlapping hooked rugs created a floor. Lamps hung from the ceiling struts, and one corner sported a stand displaying the captain’s armor.

  Captain Beltrane sat behind a small oval table, but stood when Cyril entered. His chiseled jaw and black hair framed a pleasant expression. But behind it lurked a cool appraisal. The mage steeled himself for an interrogation. He didn’t want to give up any more information than necessary. The less people knew about their quest, the safer he and Dagorat would be. One never knew who might be a Golgent agent, or who had a weakness for gossip.

  After an uncomfortable pause, Beltrane said, “Yes, I recognize you. Weren’t you in the courtyard of the palace some weeks ago?”

  “Yes, I was attending to some business.”

  “You were also mingling with some noblemen and merchants.” He invited Cyril and Kiralynn to sit, and poured himself some water. “I’m curious about your presence in my caravan.” With a suspicious frown, he placed his cup down. “Lieutenant Kiralynn tells me you’re on a mission of some kind.”

  Cyril’s head bobbed. “Yes, Captain, a mission concerning a rather delicate matter.”

  “How interesting. What valuable object are you transporting?”

  “None.”

  The captain tented his hands and leaned forward. “Just because they call you Cyril the Wise, that doesn’t mean all other men are fools.”

  “A wise observation, Captain,” Cyril said.

  “You told my lieutenant those men were thieves.”

  Cyril nodded again.

  “A bold-faced lie,” Kiralynn said.

  “It does seem odd. If you have no valuables, why would thieves choose your wagon to rob?” The captain stared at Cyril with angry eyes. “Unless your dried beans taste better than others.”

  The mage clenched his jaw, taken aback. He forced himself to relax. Out here, he was not one of the Mentirian elite, but simply another traveler.