Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (12 page)

Chapter 20

G
ant leaned against a black-skinned walnut tree. The day was peaceful. He enjoyed the soft breeze and the occasional patch of sunshine that slipped through the fluttering leaves high overhead.  He couldn't remember ever feeling so good.  The warm glow of ecstasy filled his veins. In fact he remembered very little prior to coming to Dalphnia’s woods.

A butterfly flitted by lazily, working its wings in paired strokes.  Lightly, the orange and black insect drifted in to land on a bright red flower.  A hummingbird buzzed around Dalphnia's flower garden too.  Gant watched it dart from flower to flower and then zip off to wherever it called home.

He twisted his head to watch Dalphnia’s lithe form coming up the trail.  Her long brown hair rippled lightly over her shoulders, her step was springy, almost as if her feet never touched the ground.  She hummed softly to herself.

“How do you feel this morning?”

“Very well, thanks.”

“Your wounds healed well.” She smiled when she spoke and her words came out like tinkling chimes.

Gant thought only of her. Other memories were like distant dreams.  She was tall and athletic.  Gant had seen many women with fuller figures, but Dalphnia’s beauty was in her slender, graceful strength.  She moved as if floating. Her eyes were a deep brown, the color of polished walnut, and burned with intelligence.  Gant had no idea how old Dalphnia was.  She seemed younger than he was, but understood so much more than he did. She was patient and had a magical rapport with the trees.  Her skin was soft, smooth as cream at the top of milk, but it seemed to change color from tan to dull green.  She was beautiful.  Gant felt his heart pound every time she came near.

“I guess so,” he said finally, though he couldn’t remember having any wounds.

“Today you should be ready for a walk. I’ll show you my forest.”

Gant rose slowly.  His muscles responded stiffly, but without pain.  Tightness persisted in several places along his back, but the euphoria he felt near Dalphnia eased even that.

“Come,” she said, taking his arm.

Her skin felt electric.  Gant’s every nerve cried for her touch. Her fingertips against his upper arm sent shivers through him.

They walked along the winding path down the slope away from Dalphnia’s treehouse.  A blanket of brown needles marked the trail even though there were no pine trees in sight.  She pointed out oaks, maples, beech, hickory and walnut trees.  Once passed the hardwoods, they came to an intimate pine glade where it was easy to get lost in the thick evergreen boughs.  Scattered clumps of wildflowers displayed her artistic handiwork.

Now and again, Dalphnia let her arm encircle Gant’s waist.  She hugged him lightly, like a parent does a child.  Gant felt stirrings that were not new, but were different. Here was a woman that filled him not with a juvenile lust, but something fuller, stronger, more powerful.  He longed to enfold her in his arms, but didn’t.  Somehow it didn’t seem like the right time.

The trail circled around until they were heading back toward Dalphnia’s home.  All through her forest Gant noticed that the trees were taller and stronger than any others in the forest.  Every variety was there even a grove of fruit trees: apple, cherry, pear, and peach, and each bore fruit, full and ripe.

Gant wondered how that could be since it was not the season for fruit.

“How can the trees have fruit?” he asked.

“They always have fruit,” she laughed, as if that answered his question. Farther along, there was an open meadow in the midst of the towering trees.  The grass was short, lush and green.  In the middle was a row of five thin stone slabs set in the ground with names engraved on them.  Gant saw them but only had eyes for Dalphnia and they passed by without comment. 

Finally they strolled back up the gentle slope to Dalphnia’s treehouse.  As they walked she told him stories about the birds and little animals of the forest, calling them by names unfamiliar to Gant.  She giggled between anecdotes, squeezing his arm, hugging him. Gant felt tired in a good way.  Muscles that had gone unused felt warm and responsive again.  Much of the tightness in his shoulders, chest, and legs had disappeared.

Again he wondered about his injuries.  “Why do you ask me about my wounds? I don't remember any wounds.”

“I found you wounded from a battle with a terrible beast.  You were not far from here so I carried you home.  It’s probably just as well that you forget, the wounds were grievous.”

Was she lying? He looked her up and down.  She didn’t look like she could carry him anywhere.  Where did she get the strength?

She smiled.  “I think you’re ready.  Tonight will be your first, I think.”

“My first what?”

“You'll see,” and she laughed, light and airy.

Gant followed her up the spiral staircase that wrapped around the massive oak into her treetop mansion.  The floors were masses of intertwined branches.  The leaves formed an impenetrable roof over their heads, and the walls were huge limbs that grew thicker than a man’s chest.  Gant noticed that the tree seemed to reposition its branches to suit Dalphnia.  On hot nights, the branches unmeshed, allowing the cool night breeze to skip through and sweep away the pent-up heat.  On blustery days, the branches tightened their maze to block out the tiniest draft.  It was the most comfortable dwelling Gant had ever seen. He liked it here.

Once they reached the main room, Gant sat on a comfortable chair formed by two great limbs.  “What’s so special about tonight?”

Dalphnia turned from a storage sack made of dried leaves sewn together.  “First, we eat.  You’ll need your strength. We’ll watch the sunset together.”

Gant looked to the west.  The branches had parted to form a window through which he saw the huge orange ball sliding toward the horizon.  Its fading rays painted the sky and treetops a glorious gold.  It was a magnificent view.

Dalphnia brought a wooden platter loaded with fruits, nuts and golden grains.  She sat next to Gant, so close their knees rubbed lightly.  Gant felt the surging desire building again.

She leaned closer, lightly pressing a smooth purple grape to his lips.  He took it, chewed it, savored the juice.  Dutifully she fed him, satisfying his hunger.  As he ate, the sun fell behind the distant treetops and darkness came. The branches gently closed the window. She turned aside and placed the tray on the floor.  When she turned back, it was her lips she offered and Gant tasted them; tasted a new kind of sweetness that he thought would consume him.  She broke off the kiss, took Gant’s hand and led him up to her bedroom. Fireflies danced above them, giving them only enough light to appreciate each other.

#

Gant woke refreshed.  He felt warm, his muscles strong and renewed.  He couldn’t remember ever sleeping that well.  Then again, he couldn’t remember much.  His nerves pulsated with warm memories of the night before.  Gant had never known the pleasure brought by the fusion of two people.  He felt more whole than he imagined possible.  Dalphnia had been gentle and patient with his naiveté.  She coaxed him, teased him, caressed him, and all the while her musical laughter urged him on. Her deep throaty breathing brought them both to the final burst of delight.

He dozed for a time, woke up, stretched and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair.  Scanning the bedroom he concluded that she was gone.  He was still amazed at how sparsely the room was furnished.  The tree probably provided what she needed, he thought.  Slowly he got up, reluctant to leave their love nest.  He rolled out of bed and went to the limb where his breeches hung.  Leisurely, he pulled them on and then arranged his tunic.

On his way out of the bedroom, he noticed a tiny room tucked away on the left.  Curious, Gant peeked inside.  Hanging from a branch was an expertly crafted suit of armor.  Next to the armor hung a belt, scabbard, and sword. Something about the armor and sword tugged at Gant’s subconscious.  He paused a moment to study them, to admire the superb craftsmanship.  Whose were they?  Maybe she was married.  Or had been.  Gant felt pangs of jealousy.  Who was he?  Was Gant the fool?  He dashed from the room, down the stairs.  He would demand answers.

He found her tending her flowers, happily caressing the delicate petals.   A glow pervaded the garden and an aura surrounded her.  Warm sunlight threw rivers of highlights off the wisps of her hair drifting in the light breeze.

She turned to look at Gant.  Her smile softened his anger.

“Good morning,” she said.  “I thought you were going to sleep all day.”

Gant almost smiled, but he couldn’t put the thought of the other man out of his mind.  “Whose armor?”

She stiffened.  Her eyes gave away her uncertainty.  Something cold passed between them and for a moment the harmony broke.  But only for a split second.  In that split second Gant was awash in a flood of memories, his memories.  For an instant he knew who he was.  And then the Dalphnia’s harmonious charm swept over him again and his past vanished.

Dalphnia smiled a sad smile.  “It is yours,” she said kissing him lightly on the cheek.  “I told you, I found you wounded wearing that armor.  The sword was still in the lair, but I retrieved it.  At first I thought you were dead.”  She stopped for a moment, her eyes looking somewhere far away.  Her smile brightened and she laughed like dainty bells chiming a beautiful melody.  “But you healed quickly, and strangely, so did the armor. You are a marvelous man, Gant.”

She hugged him and kissed him again, this time on the forehead.

“But I don't remember being a warrior.”  As he said it glimpses of his memory flickered through his mind, but they were too faint, as if veiled behind a curtain and he let them slip away.

“It doesn't matter now,” said Dalphnia, “we have each other.”

She squeezed Gant so tight he thought she would never let go.  Maybe she was afraid to let go, he thought, and hugged her back.

Holding her he wondered why he had doubted her? She had saved his life.  She was beautiful, loving, and kind.  He would think twice before he accused her again.  He shouldn’t have been prying anyway.  “Sorry,” was all he could say.  He let go of her, turned and mounted the stairs.

She watched him go for a long moment before returning to her flowers.  There would be many more warm nights.

Chapter 21

S
now swirled around the castle.  Winter held on with a vengeance.  Waiting for the Night of Darkness, Barlon harangued his captains on the glorious war they would wage.  Silently, sullenly, they endured, waiting for action.  Barlon, too, longed for battle, longed to see his enemies cringe before him and beg for mercy.  Mercy he would never give.  Only seeing them dead would satisfy his lust for revenge.

Finally, the Night of Darkness arrived.  Barlon sat alone in the war room patiently waiting for his wizard.

The door opened and Razgoth slipped quietly into the room.  “Sire,” he said, “all is ready.  After I form the portal to the Dark Realms, you must wield the amulet when Varg comes through.”

“Good,” replied Barlon, leaping from his chair.   “I am anxious to meet my new ally.”

Razgoth shook his head.  “Do you realize the dangers? Demons are not want to serve man no matter how strong the magic that binds them.  They pleasure only in suffering and pain.”

“Then he'll enjoy his work.”  With that Barlon brushed past Razgoth and hurried down the gloomy hallways to Razgoth's workroom.

The wizard's chamber was deep in the bowels of the castle near the dungeons where Uric was held captive.  As Barlon entered, having passed the bevy of guards and iron strapped doors, his eyes protested the smoky darkness.  Scant light came from iron braziers full of glowing coals set regularly around a great magic circle drawn on the floor.  Smokey candles sat in groups of nine at each corner of the room and on short, small tables placed at the midpoint of each wall.  Their flames gave off more smoke than light.  An acrid mist filled the room like wind-blown grit.  It burned the nose and the back of the throat. Barlon forced himself inside and fought down a cough.

Razgoth entered beside him, surprisingly immune to the pungent cloud.  “It is important to do exactly as I instruct.”

Barlon looked reproachfully at his wizard.  He hated being given orders.  This time he excused Razgoth’s rudeness.  “Of course, I'm not stupid.”

“You must stand exactly here.”  Razgoth gently moved Barlon into a small purple triangle that was drawn on the floor only inches from the great circle.  Once inside, Barlon felt powerful magic vibrate through his boots.

“Do not move from this spot until I tell you to, no matter what you see or hear.  When I nod, hold up the amulet so the demon can see it.  I'll do the rest.”

“Why all the warnings?  Can't you make the demon respond?”

“No.  I can produce the portal between dimensions and summon Varg to that opening but I cannot make him come over to our world. He must be lured here. My magic has no power in the realms of darkness.  I only open the way. Once he steps through to our plane the spell will be completed and you will hold power over him.”

Razgoth turned away from Barlon and walked around the great circle to a place directly opposite the Mountain Lord.  The middle-aged necromancer weaved his spell, intricate hand motions and tracings in the air with his nimble fingers coupled with arcane chants.  Lastly, he cast a dark powder into the middle of the great circle.

Slowly a deeper blackness grew in the smoky grayness at the center of the room.  The darkness swelled, gaining size and shape until it became an opening into a hellish world.  Flashes of red leapt from the void.  A low wailing filtered into the room followed by a piercing shriek.  Varg stood in the portal, broader and taller than a man and ugly as death.  His skin was black, the total absence of light, his ears flared up away from his hard features like miniature charcoal wings.  His red eyes flashed a blazing hatred.

“Who calls me to the world of my children?”  His tone carried a false sweetness with an undercurrent of menace.

“I, Razgoth.”  The wizard raised both arms, muttered words of power known to few on Earth.  “I have need of your power and you shall share the fruits of that power.”  More finger motions and an unintelligible arcane word.

“I see your power, wizard, but you interest me little.”

“I will help you break the spell that keeps you from this world.”

Varg turned his head, first to one side, then the other.  Something stopped him before he could turn far enough to see Barlon Gorth.  “And if I come, what will you do with me once I have completed your task?”

“You are free, of course.”

“Name your task.”

“The fall of the Western Kings.”

Varg pondered, immobile.  Then his body solidified, appearing like wrought iron.  The portal closed silently behind him.

“Let's go. The Kings fall before the sun sets.”

“No.  We go with my Lord.”

Razgoth nodded toward Barlon who gripped the medallion hanging around his neck and raised it to head level.  He held it there waiting for the demon's eyes to fall on it.

Slowly, as if aware of someone else in the room for the first time, Varg turned toward the Mountain King.  His sight swept around the circle until it reached the pulsating amulet.  A flash of light flared as the demon's eyes came to rest on the magically wrought gold and jewels.  The sparkle left Varg’s eyes transferred to the image within the medallion.  The demon’s eyes became dull red and the tiny eyes of the likeness within the interwoven strands of gold flashed as if alive.

“He is yours to command,” said Razgoth, dropping his arms.   “Be careful what you say.  He may interpret your words too literally.”

“Fine.  Will he stay somewhere until morning?  I want to brief my commanders and then we'll need to know exactly what he can do for us.”

“He'll do whatever you tell him, short of committing suicide.”

“Go with Razgoth.  He’ll show you to your quarters.  Stay there until we come to get you in the morning. Razgoth, take him to his chambers, then meet me in the war room.”

“As you wish.”

Varg trooped out on Razgoth’s heels his face emotionless.  Razgoth looked drawn and pale.  Barlon Gorth smiled, satisfied with his plan’s progress.  It was going to take a while to figure out how best to use Varg but they had time.  The snows would be gone soon and they would attack the West on the heels of the thaw.  The first few skirmishes as they moved into the middle Western Kingdom of Chadmir would likely be only with border guards.  Those could be overwhelmed by the Knights of Habichon while Barlon experimented with the demon’s powers.  It would not be long, and with Sir Jarlz enchanted to believe that Barlon was his liege the greatest living knight had taken one of the empty suits of purple armor.  With all that in his favor, Barlon felt invincible.