Saving Olympus- the Dark Army

by R D Wolfe

  Rushing through the gate, he found himself in an open area of the city that looked like a market. A fountain stood in the center, with booths and shops all around. The thief stood on the opposite side, unable to pass through the solid buildings that formed circled around them. The only other ways out were through a large tunnel, which had been closed off from a main road for the evening, and the doors of various shops and houses.

  The thief turned toward Darien. Whoever it was had the clear resemblance of a troll, but their face was covered by a mask, shielding their expression. Their breathing was labored, but steady. Darien stared the thief down, letting himself catch his breath. The thief slowly drew a curved blade from his waist, dropping the stolen sword on the ground behind him. Darien felt his heart begin to race. This wasn’t a sparring match, this was real, and he was alone this time. If Darien won, he would regain the sword. If he lost …

  Drawing his own sword, Darien felt the weight of his situation pressing down onto him. He stood his ground as the thief made his way over, stopping about five feet away.

  “Leave human, this sword is no longer meant for you.” The masked troll’s voice was filled with hatred and malice, possessing a strange quality that Darien couldn’t quite pick out.

  Darien didn’t say a word, staring back into the dark eyes, allowing his mind to become clear, letting the rehearsed discipline take over.

  “I won’t say it again. Leave now or this city will be your grave,” the thief snarled.

  Darien took a step forward, mind calm, pulse slowing, as he began to focus on what he had to do. He had to get the sword. Where was Rist? He had been just behind Darien before they crashed through the gate into the market.

  No, keep your focus here. On him.

  Darien raised his sword, closing the gap between himself and the thief. They stared at each other for a moment before the thief attacked.

  Darien parried, and struck at the troll’s left shoulder, which his opponent easily blocked and countered. Darien was fast, but this troll was faster than anyone he had ever fought before. He knew he was outmatched. With lightning speed, the thief struck in quick succession at Darien’s left ankle, his shoulder, finally thrusting at Darien’s torso. He was barely able to block the attacks before separating himself from the troll, taking an elbow to the ribs as they parted.

  Darien was in trouble. Rist was still missing. Evatra and Chorrun could have no idea where he gone, and he was being subdued by his opponent.

  “You are even weaker than I thought! You have no place here, human.” The last word was coated in venom. “You will never be able to challenge the great Cyprin.”

  Darien desperately lunged forward on his left foot The troll sidestepped and, in a fluid move, grabbed Darien’s wrist, twisting it and knocking the sword out of his hand, sending him tumbling to the ground. His head hit the stone pathway hard, temporarily blinding him, and he felt the troll’s curved blade slicing through the flesh of his left arm. The troll put his foot on Darien’s neck, making it almost impossible to breathe through the pressure of the boot and the pain in his arm.

  “Pathetic,” sneered the troll. “You aren’t even worth the magic it took to bring you to this world.”

  The troll raised his sword to deliver the killing blow. Throwing his good arm up protectively, which he knew would be no use, Darien braced for the end.

  But it never came.

  Thunk.

  Looking up, Darien saw a glint of metal shining on the troll’s forehead, just between his eyes, an expression of bewilderment on his face. His would-be killer’s arms went slack, his sword clattering on the stone, as he fell backward. Darien felt the pressure of the troll’s boot give way, as the sound of light steps came quickly towards him from the direction of the gate. He saw Rist bending over him before everything faded to black.

  Chapter 16: The Hope

  “How can we let him continue?”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  “He couldn’t even defeat one of them!”

  “No one has faced an opponent like that in nearly three millennia. Who knows who could have won that fight?”

  Darien’s eyes fluttered open, his surroundings black and fuzzy as tried to find the direction of the voices.

  “We will not be held responsible for what happens to him from here on out,” a strange voice spoke with resentment.

  “No one is asking you to.” Darien realized the other voice belonged to Rist.

  As his vision came back into focus, he noticed he was in a small, circular room, lying on a bed. Darien sat up, wincing as pain shot through his upper arm. Grabbing at the wound, he felt tight bandages wrapped around it. He tested the movement, and it felt like he had only been scratched deeply. The muscles were still sore, but his mobility wasn’t hampered at all. Darien thought back to his left wrist that had pained him after being captured by Kort.

  That’s twice I’ve gotten lucky.

  Pushing his legs over the side of the bed, Darien hesitated a moment, feeling dizzy. He waited for the sensation to pass before slowly standing up and, deciding he felt strong enough, walking silently to the door.

  “He’s reckless. Running off like that was a foolish and immature thing to do!” The stranger was almost screaming.

  “He and I both ran from the castle. Do I appear immature or foolish to you?” Rist asked, his voice threatening and chilling to Darien’s ears.

  “Well… no, but—”

  “If not for Darien, we would have lost the sword, and our chance to end this Cycle,” Rist cut the stranger off. “You go too far. You do not make decisions for the Four.”

  He heard footsteps, presumably those of the stranger, going off into the distance. Darien reached out to the handle of the door and opened it, finding himself looking at Rist’s back.

  “I know you heard the ending of that, and I apologize.” Rist said over his shoulder.

  “Who was that?” Darien asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. Just someone who is too scared to see past their fear,” Rist sneered, glancing back at the door.

  “He’s right, Rist,” Darien said, feeling resigned.

  The hooded figure turned to face him.

  “There may be elements of truth in the concerns.” Rist moved past him, sitting in a chair next to the bed. “However, what he says is not the whole truth, and that is what matters."

  Darien crossed the room, passing through the illuminated dust in the air, and sat on the edge of the solid stone bed, his arm still aching.

  “What do you mean?” Darien asked.

  Rist said nothing for a few moments, simply looking at Darien. At least, he thought Rist was looking at him. It was hard to tell.

  “You are part of the Four. This group, band, company, whatever word you wish to use to describe us, we have a mission that we must complete. Because of the spell cast at the end of the Civil War, we must be the ones to complete it. If even one of us falls on the way, we would doom all of our worlds to Cyprin’s rule.”

  “You’re not making me feel any better," Darien said gloomily.

  “What that fool is failing to see,” Rist continued, “is that losing one member, even if that individual appears to be a liability, would surely diminish our chances at success. The people here are so tightly focused on ensuring that we finish the task, that they forget the steps we must take to achieve it. You see, the Cycle is almost a religion for many here, particularly those who don’t take the time to read the stories as the history that they are. To them, we are almost like gods, and gods aren’t allowed to fail.”

  “So, I did fail?” Darien asked, unsure of what had transpired after he lost consciousness.

  “In a way,” Rist shrugged. “You didn’t beat him, but he didn’t get away. In one respect, you lost, but in the greater sense, you succeeded.”

  “I guess there’s something to be said for the big picture,” sarcasm lined Darien’s voice.

  “There is,” Rist nodded, appearing not to notice
.

  “So, what happened? The last thing I remember I saw a piece of metal sticking out of the troll’s head, then your face, and then I blacked out. Is everyone in the castle okay?” Darien asked, eager to hear more details.

  Rist went silent, and the room itself appeared to dim with the change in mood. After several heartbeats, he finally spoke again.

  “King Aghemnon is dead.”

  “What?” Darien gasped.

  “How is that possible?” Darien asked, thoughts rushing through his mind. “Evatra and Chorrun were with him when we left, not to mention the guards in the castle.”

  “The thief was not alone,” Rist replied. “He had several servants and members of the guard under his influence somehow. His name was Tahmer, and he had worked in the kitchens for twenty years, learning everything he could about the castle, planning his theft.

  “After the sword was stolen, Tahmer’s trolls attacked. The King was supposedly taken to safety by his guards, Evatra and Chorrun hurried after us. But the King’s guards betrayed and attacked him. The King and Queen killed their attackers, but not before the King was mortally wounded.”

  Darien was speechless. People—real people—who had given him food, clothing, and all the benefits of their hospitality, were dead. The more he thought about the last twenty-four hours, the more Darien began to feel ill.

  “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Darien said, as he turned and felt his stomach’s contents splash into a bucket beside the bed. He laid his head back, feeling a twinge in the spot where his head had met the grey stone slab of the headboard.

  Rist watched, saying nothing as Darien tried to recover.

  “What happens now?” Darien asked, the nausea subsiding.

  “Now, we meet with the others so that we can hear your version of events. We have theories about who Tahmer was, but you are the only one who had a chance to speak with him in the market.” Rist paused, seeming to examine Darien for a moment. “We can join them when you’re ready.”

  Darien stood again and felt another wave of nausea crash through him. He held it back and stood up straight, nodding at Rist that he was ready to continue.

  Following the black robes out the door, Darien made his way through the halls of the now somber castle until they arrived at the council chamber where they had first met Aghemnon. Marenya sat alone at the head of the table in the seat next to the King’s, looking stoic as Rist and Darien entered. Chorrun stood in the corner behind Marenya’s left shoulder. Evatra stood next to the Queen, leaning with her hands on the large stone table. A handful of trolls stood around the room, Darien guessed them to be additional protection for the Queen. Last, Darien spotted the Scillan, who was sitting alone in a far corner of the room.

  The stolen sword lay in the center of the table, wrapped in cloth to shield it from view. Curiously, no one in the room dared to look at it.

  Darien’s attention was pulled from the weapon as Marenya spoke. Her voice was tired, but it had assumed a level of strength that Darien had not heard from her before.

  “Darien, I have to thank you,” she said. “Without your efforts to chase down this ‘Tahmer,’ we may have never caught the one behind this attack. Our city grieves the loss of the King, but our people thank you for stopping his killers in their escape.”

  Darien was taken aback by the reaction. The last thing he had expected to hear, particularly after the conversation between Rist and the unseen troll, was gratitude.

  “I, uh… you’re welcome,” Darien stammered. He glanced at Evatra, who met his gaze without expression.

  “We will, of course, continue to keep the sword safe in our vaults until the Four leave the city,” Marenya continued. “Now, you had a chance to speak with ‘Tahmer,’” she said his name like a curse, “before he was killed in the duel. We are all hoping, and I most of all, that you can shed some light on who this thief was, how he managed to steal the sword, and what he hopped to gain by doing so.”

  The room fell silent as everyone's eyes pressed into Darien.

  He told them everything he could. The chase through the streets, and how he cornered the troll in the marketplace alone, which Rist explained was due to his own attempt to cut ahead of the thief. Darien repeated everything Tahmer had said, the command for him to leave, the strength of the troll, and his allegiance to Cyprin.

  At this last mention, the room went completely still, as if time itself had stopped at the mention of the enemy’s name.

  “That’s not possible!” one of the troll guards burst out. “Cyprin hasn’t sent his agents into the lands of Olympus for three-thousand years.”

  “It seems that times have changed,” Rist said in his icy voice, silencing the troll.

  “What say you, Chorrun?” Marenya turned to the centaur, “Save for the King, you are the only person here who knows the histories of the Cycle. Has Cyprin sent any agents in the times before?”

  Chorrun considered carefully before answering.

  “There is no mention of Cyprin sending any of his forces beyond Zanarchin,” he spoke slowly. “We don’t know how long it would take for him to regain his full strength, but he never has, even with full access to magic. No one can know how long it would take any of those imprisoned with him to gain freedom.”

  Then, for the first time, the Scillan spoke, their voice calm and assured.

  “Your Highness, I know much of the Cycles as well. If Cyprin has sent one agent into your city, it is likely that he may send others here, or to the other cities. Given that this is… unprecedented, I believe that this marks a shift, a change, in how Cyprin may operate during this Cycle. Typically, there is time allotted for the Four to complete their journey, if my records are correct.”

  “They are,” Chorrun confirmed, “but it has never taken this long to begin.”

  The Scillan looked at Chorrun and nodded in thanks before continuing.

  “This represents an escalation. If Cyprin can send one, he may be able to send many. His attempt at covert action has failed, which may prompt him to make a stronger move at his next opportunity. Remember, Tahmer not only infiltrated Farkland Reach, but he orchestrated the death of the King. It is this act which makes me believe there is a greater risk of danger.”

  “What are you hinting at, Scillan?” Rist asked sharply.

  “If you wish to kill a foe,” the Scillan continued, speaking deliberately, “the surest way is to cut off their head. Cyprin could have instructed Tahmer, to simply steal the sword, but he did not. Farkland Reach is at the center of Olympus, and would be the first to fall should he come to power again.”

  Silence fell across the room. The Scillan was right, and they all knew it. If Cyprin thought he could rise to power again, his first act would be to take Farkland Reach. Killing the cities royalty would make that task even easier. From there, he would be able to orchestrate attacks against the other lands and villages, all while remaining safe in a heavily fortified city.

  “All of that,” the pale face continued, “and the beasts that Darien and Evatra fought in the lands to the east of here, lend more credence to this theory. I have not yet had the opportunity to inform you all of our conclusions, though Evatra and Darien have heard this before. I believe the riders they fought were soldiers of Cyprin’s army.” The Scillan finished ominously, though their tone of voice hadn’t changed.

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?” Chorrun asked sharply.

  “I was asked to refrain from telling my piece of the story until you and Darien returned from the King’s study,” the Scillan said impassively. “When you did not come back, it was decided that I would wait until after the feast last night. I simply did as I was asked.”

  They fell silent, realizing that they had all failed to see the most important piece of the puzzle, which had been in their midst.

  “Queen Marenya,” Rist said, his voice uncharacteristically soft and warm, “I believe our pale friend here may be correct. If those creatures and Tahmer were indeed soldiers of
Cyprin’s dark army, it’s possible that more are coming. We will need scouting parties to examine the lands towards Zanarchin to determine the severity of any dangers.”

  “Should what he says be true,” Chorrun picked up the line of thought, “it may be time for Farkland Reach to serve as a defense for the lands of Olympus once more. Given your location at the mouth of the western mountains, you are the first line of defense for almost all of Olympus. Should you fall…”

  Chorrun trailed off, leaving the consequences unsaid, but still known to all.

  Marenya stood and walked to a window, looking down at the people milling about in the early morning sunlight.

  “My people know nothing of war,” she said, worry laced through her voice. “Our guards are trained only to protect the castle and keep peace within the city. If this should come to pass, I’m not sure that our strength will be enough.”

  Darien watched as a single tear ran down her grey cheek. She turned back to them and, with a hint of forced stoicism, said, “I will do as you ask and send scouts toward Zanarchin. What do you suggest we do to prepare, should they find something?”

  “You shouldn’t wait for the scouts to return,” Evatra spoke, lending her thoughts to the discussion for the first time. “You need to begin preparations now.”

  “I can’t risk throwing my people into chaos and fear over what we don’t know exists!” Marenya protested.

  “Your Majesty,” Evatra replied earnestly, “if Cyprin’s army is there, then the time it takes for the scouts to report back will be wasted. We can’t afford to just hope there’s nothing out there. Zanarchin is at most a week’s ride for a small force. For anything larger, we might have two weeks, assuming they’re not closer already.”

  “She’s right,” Rist agreed. “We must begin preparations without delay. I would also suggest that Darien and I remain here, along with any other members of the Four who might make their way here before the scouts return. If Cyprin has amassed any sizable force, you will need every arm possible.”