Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (15 page)

“Yes.”

She waved him back and returned her attention to the messenger.  “How many soldiers does Barlon command?”

“Two thousand, three at most.”

“Ridiculous!”

“Majesty, they were counted several times, and though strung out to give the impression of more, there are no more than three thousand.”

“Are the purple knights with him?”

“Yes.”

“Even so, he cannot hope to win a war with the West.”

“It is the demon, Majesty.  Varg is with them.”

“So.  Our father has returned as promised to wreak his vengeance on his ‘naughty’ children. You have done well.  Rest and take food before you return to your duties.” 

She waved the messenger away. 

“Get the sacred tome,” she said, staring at the High Priest.  “We meet in the War Hall as soon as you can get there.”

Suddenly the Royal Hall was a flurry of activity.  The High Priest stepped off with long strides on his way to get the requested volume.  The royal guards huddled around the Queen as she rose.  The other ministers scurried off with the news.

Sarona marched off surrounded by her personal guards.  When she arrived at the War Hall she waved the guards to their customary positions, and discarded the long, showy gown she’d worn in court.  Underneath she wore a light leather tunic and skirt.  She carried a decorative dagger on her left hip and the royal scepter in her belt to the right.

As always, the world map lay open on the long table. Various figurines stood on the board, representing the units of other realms.  No elf units were represented.  Sarona went to a small flat box.  She lifted the lid, reached in and pulled out the black miniature of Varg.

“Finally you come back for us,” she said to the tiny statue, placing it next to the cast replica of Fort Pal.  “After all these years, I hope Bartholomew’s teachings are true, or we shall all perish.”

The ministers began to file in followed closely by the High Priest.  In his arms he carried a tremendous book with covers made of thin oak.  Numerous runes were burned into the cover and though the book seemed ancient, a sulphurous odor clung to it.  The High Priest set the massive tome on a pedestal designed to hold it at waist level.  He mumbled a few words, nodded with his eyes closed and opened the front cover.  Without hesitation, the High Priest flipped the yellowed pages to a well-worn spot in the text.

“Bartholomew writes,” he read from the text.  “Varg shall not stay imprisoned forever.  Men of evil intent shall free him to do their foul deeds.  Though their control seems perfect to their narrow sight, it is inevitable that Varg shall escape their power and seek the ruin of man and elf.  Much cannot be seen about when, how, or why this will come to pass, but I fear that it will happen in a time when there is no magic strong enough to stop Varg once he is loosed upon my people.”

The High Priest stopped.  “And we have no wizards who can stop Varg.”  There was a plaintive note in his voice.

“I know that,” said Sarona.  “We all know he predicted Varg’s return. Read the section that refers to ridding us of Varg, and stop talking as if we were doomed.”

“Yes, Majesty.”  The priest flipped several pages, scanned until he found what he wanted, and then read aloud, “Though time holds many secrets, do not despair.  There may be a warrior of your time mighty enough to kill Varg in this existence and send him back to his realm of darkness.  It is less clear who this warrior may be.  I can see battle, many battles and many will try and fail, but perhaps there is one who can succeed.  Victory is not without sacrifice.”

The priest flipped several more pages, and then read again. “I cannot discover the name of the warrior who can defeat Varg.  Every attempt fails.  Perhaps he does not exist.”

“I cannot bear the thought of the carnage, the annihilation, of my beloved people.  I have taken matters into my own hands as best I can.  There will be a distant grandson of mine who will rise to the pinnacle of armed combat.  I have seen this though I have no name to put to him either.  I have fashioned a sword and magical armor like none elsewhere on this world.  My sacrifice was great for it took almost a full year to accomplish, and in that time I missed my friends and lover grievously, as I know they did me.  Yet, if it will save our races, I have no regrets.”

“The sword and armor are entrusted to someone I know will deliver them at the proper time, someone who knows what clue to watch for.  When Varg rises again, seek out my progeny, seek his aid, show him my words and pray that my powers are strong enough to last through the centuries. That is all I can do.”

The priest closed the book.

“Well, where is Bartholomew’s great-great grandson?”

The priest grunted.

“We know he won at Devonshield, Majesty,” said the Minister of State.   “He was with Sir Jarlz but went south alone.  We lost him on the road through the Great Forest near Dalphnia’s enchanted woods.  He was headed for Falls Hill, but when we got there Gant never arrived.”

Sarona glared at her minister.  “Why was I not told of this immediately?  Now our only hope is lost.”

“We don't know that.  Gant may live.”

“Then where is he?  Where did he go?  Find him!”

She slammed her fist into her palm and stormed for the door.

“Priest,” she shouted, pausing in the doorway, “look for another way to stop Varg.  Don’t stop until you have an answer.”

Sarona left.  The room fell silent.  Eventually the ministers moved off to their daily tasks. Doom darkened their faces and wearied their bodies.  The dark elves were preparing for their worst nightmare.

Chapter 25

G
ant lay in bed and watched the sun rise through the opening between branches in Dalphnia’s treehouse. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d seen it rise from the treehouse.  It didn’t matter. The golden disc rose steadily higher as he watched.  He was still aglow from her touch, happy for her, happy for himself.

From the garden he heard Dalphnia’s silver voice singing. Birds whistled to her from the low branches of nearby trees. Everywhere within her influence there was harmony. Dalphnia brought him peace and everything around her. 

Gant sat up.  He wanted to go down to Dalphnia.  Sometimes he helped her in the garden.  Sometimes they walked in the woods.  Always he was with her, every waking moment.  He rolled out of bed, pulled on his breeches and peeked into the closet at the glimmering armor and sword that were supposed to be his.  Every day he looked at the sword and longed to touch it. If only he could remember.  But the memories were locked away.  If it really was his, he should remember.

Today he stood a moment longer.  Something about the sword held his attention.  Hauntingly, it called to him.  He started to turn away. The sword’s lure strengthened.

He stepped toward the sword, still resisting the desire to touch it. The closer he got the stronger the feeling became until the lust to hold the sword burned in him.  He struggled against it, reminding himself that the past was better off left buried.  He was happy, content.

He inched closer.  Emotions swept over him that he could no longer resist. As if sleep walking, he reached for the hilt.  Almost before his hand moved, the sword leaped from its scabbard into his hand.  The moment the hilt kissed his palm, his ancestor’s incredible magic flooded his brain, sweeping away the cobwebs, dissolving Dalphnia’s spell. Gant stood once more the son of the Joshua, Netherdorf smith.  His memories rushed back like a tidal wave.  He remembered everything.

He twisted Valorius this way and that, watching the sun flash off her blade.  He marveled all over again at her perfection and power. The euphoria lasted only a minute. 

Dalphnia’s sweet song drifted up from the garden.  He thought of her beautiful face, beaming up at him, as happy in his company as he was in hers.  Now he knew what she was, knew the magic she had woven to keep him here.  The spell was broken.  And yet in his heart there was an attachment.  Maybe it was love. 

He was confused, hurt, embarrassed, all at once.  He knew he should return to his own world and do whatever it took to erase the blemish from his name.  To stay with Dalphnia was to join her other husbands in the quaint little graveyard.

And what of the armor, of Valorius?  They might be needed.  Uric had gone seeking Varg.  How long ago had that been?  Was he too late?  He needed time to think.  No, too much time had passed already. He had to get going.

The magic in Valorius called stronger than ever.  Strange forces pulsed from the sword filling him with a foreboding that he’d never felt before.  He recognized the sword’s call to battle, knew that somewhere Varg waited, and he would have to answer.  He owed it to Uric, and to Bartholomew.  They had staked too much on Gant’s ability to use Valorius against Varg.

He tried to remember the whole story Uric had told.  About how Bartholomew had fallen in love with the Queen of the Dark Elves, and how they had eventually banished Varg back to the dark regions to save the elves and seal their marriage.  He wished he’d paid more attention to the sage when he’d explained it.

Too late now, he thought, and resolutely donned his armor.  Miraculously, he noted that the holes from Egog’s bite were gone, not patched, more like healed.

What about Dalphnia?  What could he say to her?  His heart told him there was nothing that would ease her pain.  He wished it wasn’t necessary.  Her spell was broken, but something lived in his heart, something born of a different kind of magic.

He went downstairs, Valorius at his side singing heroic songs in his mind.  An old fire burned in Gant again, the same fire that had burned there since a boy on a school bench had listened to his first story of knighthood. 

He strode to the garden.  Dalphnia knelt with her back to him, glorious rays of sun reflecting off her hair.  It almost made him take off the armor and hang it back in the closet.

“Dalphnia,” he whispered.

“Oh, you’re up,” she said, turning.  She froze the instant she saw him.  The smile died on her lips.  “You’re going?”  It was both a question and a plea.

“Yes, I. . .”

He took her in his arms and held her. It was a cold embrace. The hurt inside her came through.

“No one ever leaves,” she whispered.  “Gant,” she pleaded, looking at him with wide brown pools that tried to pull him under, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved any man.  Don’t leave.”

Her hurt was his hurt.  The depth and breadth of it staggered him.  “If only I could stay,” he said finally.  “But we’d never know happiness.  Not with my family out there caught in the coming darkness or killed by it.  I hate to leave, believe me.  But I'm afraid I’ve been here too long already.”

“Then I'll go with you.”

“No. You belong here where there is love and life.”  Gant looked once more into those deep brown eyes.  Pain flowed from them along with a flicker of understanding.  “I’ll come back to you,” he said softly.

“No, no.  Don’t lie.  You’ll never come back.”  Tears followed.  She turned and dashed up the steps into the treehouse.

Gant turned slowly to go.  His heart ached.  He
would
come back.

#

At first, Gant wasn’t sure which direction to go and he wasn’t going back to ask Dalphnia for directions.  He moved generally eastward through the forest.  Soon he crested a small hill and through the trees caught sight of the south branch of the Rushon River.  He decided to make for that and gain passage on one of the boats that would pass on their way from Falls Hill to Malathon.  From there, he’d buy a horse and travel to Blasseldune. Then he’d get word to his uncle.

#

Days later, Gant rode into Blasseldune.  A river boat had picked him up and taken him swiftly down river to Malathon where he’d bought a horse and rode as fast as possible northwest, through Maltic City to Blasseldune.  The city was much as Gant remembered, only this time as he rode into town, the tight groups of warriors and swordsmen nodded deferentially or stared tight-lipped and silent.  A couple of men shouted “hello” and called him Ironlimb.  He nodded, or waved politely, but without enthusiasm.  The long trip had worn him down and while it felt good to be close to home, he knew this was as close as he could get.

Gant thought of Hammond House but instead went straight to the Drake hoping his uncle would be there.  Jake came out
from
behind the
bar
as
Gant
made
for
his
customary
table.
 
He
sat
down heavily,
not
from
the
weight
of
his
armor,
but
from the
weight
of
his
travels.
 
Dalphnia
remained
in
his
thoughts.  He realized
her hold on him was more than the magic she might have used on other men. He was determined to return to her one day.

Gant scanned the common room. Several patrons were dressed in working
garb.  Here and
there sat
armed
men.
 
In
one
corner,
a lone
dark
elf
sat
with
his
feet on
the
table,
sipping
a mug
of
ale.
 
There
were
no
familiar
faces
and
Gant was too tired to care.  Jake
set
a large
tankard
of
ale
in
front
of Gant, and then leaned over
to
collect
his
fee.

“See
the
two
in
the
corner,”
he
said
nodding
toward
the farthest
corner.
 
“They’ve
been
asking
for
you
for
the
last
week. Grim
sort,
they
are,
never
speaking
to
anyone,
except
now
and then
when
some
new
knight
arrives.  They’d
ask
if
it
was
you. Next
time
I get
to
their
table,
they’ll
be
asking
who
you
are.  What
should
I tell
them?”

Gant studied Jake’s chubby face.
 
Fear erased
the
tavern
owner’s
usual
cheerful
smile.
 
And it was obvious that Jake did not want trouble.  Nonetheless, Gant was not going to deny who he was.

“Tell
them
who
I am,”
he
said
resolutely.

Jake
started
to
say
something and then silently picked up Gant’s offered coin and turned back to other customers.  Gant sipped his ale and watched the two strangers.  They were bear-like men with shaggy, dark hair and wild unkempt beards. He wondered what they wanted.  Huge broadswords hung at their sides and though they wore heavy fur garments Gant could tell they had breastplates beneath. He’d never seen either of them, though they reminded him of one of the warriors at Devonshield.  Maybe they needed his help.  After all, he was the Devonshield champion.  He took another sip from the mug of ale.  Curiosity got the better of him. He rose and went straight to their table.

“I’m Gant.  I hear you’re looking for me.”

Both men looked up incredulously, their hands shifted to their swords.

The farthest from Gant said, “You’re either a liar or you’re crazy.”

“Why is that?”

“Cause we’ve come to collect Lord Gorth’s bounty.  All former Knights of Netherdorf are worth one thousand gold coins.”

“And you’re worth three thousand, if you are who you say you are,” said the second.

“What are you talking about?  What do you mean,
former
Knights of Netherdorf?”  Gant wondered what happened to King Tirmus’ knights. Who was Lord Gorth?  How could he put a bounty on Gant?

“Lord Gorth has taken Netherdorf.  King Ecker now rules there, though he’s gone to war in the West. The bounty will still be paid.”

“Yes, we already collected five hundred for bringing in the head of one of the captains.”

Gant’s mind reeled.  King Tirmus deposed!  The knights hunted, and he along with them.  “What about King Tirmus?” he demanded.  His hands began to tremble.

“Escaped,” said the first.  “There’s ten thousand gold on his head,” he said tightening his grip on his sword.

Gant’s eyes burned to pinpoints.  A rage grew in him like nothing he’d ever felt.  If Netherdorf had fallen, what of his father, mother, Uncle Jarlz, and Uric?

“What about Sir Jarlz?  Have you taken him yet?”

“Sir Jarlz?”  The first one laughed.  “He was the only smart knight in all Netherdorf.  He joined Lord Gorth at the outset.”

“You’re lying.”

Gant’s right hand moved toward Valorius and instantly she was in his hand.  He leaped forward, Valorius whirling in short, practiced arcs.  For big men, they were quick. Both rolled sideways from their stools, swords out, regaining their feet on either side of Gant.

“We may even have to earn the extra two thousand,” joked the one to Gant’s left.

“Doubt it,” returned the other.

Gant stepped toward the man on his right.  Nearby patrons scattered, leaving overturned stools in their wake.  The bear-like figure held his ground.  Valorius swung down, slicing the blade off the big man’s sword as if it were soft brass.  As the burly man stared at the stump of his sword, Gant lunged in with his right shoulder slamming into the man’s breastplate and sent him sprawling backward.