Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (26 page)

They waited only a few minutes more, and then one-by-one dashed across the street to the alley beyond. Jarlz went first, the axe ready, while the others waited. The alley was empty and dark.  Jarlz motioned for the others to follow.  Amelia, Martha, Ratheyon and finally Jonathan made it across as fast as they could.

“Which way?” asked Jarlz once they’d all reached the alley’s relative safety.

“That way,” said Jonathan and pointed up the alley. He scurried ahead, turning down another alley that branched off to the right. A couple of more turns and twists and they saw the small, wooden door set in the thick sandstone outer wall.

Jarlz called a halt and the tired bunch slipped into the deep shadows of an overhanging balcony. Nothing moved. The darkness surrounding the doorway was so deep that a dozen men could have hidden there. Off to the left, someone screamed. Everyone tensed.

Then, they saw it. One of the black slashers stood motionless in the shadow of the recess around the door. His nostrils flared at the sound of the screams and that tiny movement gave away his position.  Knowing where it was they could also make out the knives it held in each hand.

“Wait here,” said Sir Jarlz.   Hefting the axe he stepped into the open and started walking toward the door as if unaware it was guarded.

Boldly the beast stepped from its hiding place, the two wicked knives flashing. Jarlz hefted the axe and braced for the beast’s charge. Instead, the creature stomped deliberately up to the knight. When Jarlz swung his first stroke, it ignored the attack. The axe head bit deep into the creature’s neck. A howling scream ripped from it and reverberated down the narrow corridor. The scream turned into a long wailing note, and with it the world seemed to fall silent. Goose bumps tingled along the skin on Jarlz’ muscular forearms. Jarlz pulled the axe out of its neck and chopped again.  The axe sliced the rest of the way through the neck and the ugly head bounced to the ground.  Its lifeless husk slumped over backward.

The world stood silent for only a moment before the air burst into a flurry of activity. Leathery wings flapped madly to reach their fallen comrade. From a few blocks away, the tramp of heavy feet signaled more killers were coming.

“Hurry, through the door,” yelled Jarlz and waved for the others.

The door opened easily and Jarlz held it as the others dashed for it. Amelia led the way.  When she reached the monster’s carcass she reached down and grabbed one of the wicked curved knives that lay on the ground. It felt warm to the touch, warmer than the air in the burning city, but not enough to burn.

By the time she’d retrieved the knife, the others had passed her, and she ran through the door last. There was a short passageway through the thick fortress wall, and then they reached another thicker door of iron bolted from the inside. Jonathan burrowed his way to the front, and fumbled only a minute before he had the bolts open. The door swung outward quietly.

Jarlz stepped out into the night. Only a few stars struggled through the combination of natural clouds and billowing smoke that rose over the city. A breeze stirred the air, fanning the flames inside the walls. Without hesitation, Jarlz pulled the others through, knowing the enemy would soon be at the door in force.

There was a narrow path leading from the door, evidence of the heavy illicit traffic that had passed through the walls. It curved out into the darkness to the right where Jarlz guessed it met the main road somewhere ahead. The party hustled down the path as fast as they could, ever aware of the soft rustle of leathery wings. The tavern owner and his wife quickly fell behind. Jarlz dropped back with them.

“Off the path,” snapped Amelia, once they were away from the door.

She dove into a shallow ditch that ran beside the path and pressed herself into the wet slime at the bottom. The others did the same. The last one reached hiding only a moment before they heard a flyer sail overhead with a soft whoosh. Two more soared by and for a while the air above was filled with their raucous cries. No one dared look up. Jarlz knew they couldn’t stay there long.  Dawn was coming.

Chapter 38

L
ord Barkmar led the tired group of elves and men into the cave. The cool, damp air refreshed them as they marched down the gentle slope into the bowels of the earth. A hundred yards into the cave, the chamber T-ed into two smaller tunnels.  They went left.  Once around the corner, rows of torches filled the corridor with a comforting yellow glow. Here the walls were smooth, cut-stone.  Gant marveled at the construction done in solid rock.

The Forest Lord hurried along forcing Gant to jog to keep up. Pris was barely able to stay within sight of the group. At the next branch, Lord Barkmar stopped.

“Gant, you come with me,” he said motioning down the right tunnel. “The rest go with Stork. He’ll take you to your rooms.”

A tall, lean elf from Lord Barkmar’s band stepped forward and started off down the left branch. The others followed, too tired to argue and anxious to get to the promised beds.

“Where are we going?” asked Gant, as he watched the others disappear.

“Your friends want to see you immediately,” said Lord Barkmar starting off faster than ever.

Gant ran to keep up, dodging other elves in the tunnel. What friends, he wondered.  They made several more turns, went down two sets of steps, twisting and turning. Finally they stopped before a gray metal door set in black rock. Lord Barkmar touched the small green square next to it and the door slid open.

“In there,” he said.

Gant stepped into an empty room. He turned around but the Forest Lord was already gone. The door slid shut in Gant’s face. Turning back to the room, Gant noted a small table, a bench, two chairs and a short squat bookcase that held half a dozen volumes. The unique thing was that the furniture was carved from living rock. Seemed more like the work of dwarves, thought Gant.

The chairs and bench had thick, furry animal hide covers that provided more than ample cushion.  Gant sank into one of the chairs. He threw back his head, closed his eyes, and rolled his neck to get the kinks out of tired muscles.

Another metal door whooshed open to Gant’s left startling him.  Abadis and Uric entered, smiling.

“Gant,” said Abadis, rushing to the young man.

Gant hugged the old wizard fiercely. He saw tiny droplets form at the corners of his wrinkled, gray eyes. Then he noticed Abadis’ left ear.

“What happened to your ear?”

“Oh, nothing.” Abadis waved away the question. “Where have you been?” The worried look on his face reminded Gant of his father whenever he came home late.

“Where have I been?” Gant almost laughed at the ridiculous question. “I should be asking you. You were supposed to be back the same night. You left us at Sylvia’s. We had to ride through the woods while you zipped around with your magic.”

The gray wizard chuckled. “It took a little longer to free Uric,” he thumbed over his shoulder to the robed sage standing behind him, “than I thought. I got a little careless.”

“Easy to do,” said Uric. “Though I'm still curious why you were meeting them at Sylvia’s?”

Abadis folded his arms across his chest. “Because no one would think of looking for us there.”

Uric stepped forward, extending one hand to Gant. “You look well after such a strenuous journey.”

“I’m okay,” said Gant, his fatigue momentarily forgotten. He shook his former teacher’s hand, glad to see familiar faces again. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be at Abadis’ house waiting for us or Amelia.”

A dark expression crossed both faces. Abadis said, “Amelia hasn’t returned for several days.” He swallowed hard and Gant saw a deep sadness cloud the old man’s eyes. “She may not be able to come back.”

“Resistance to Gorth centers around the Dark Elves now,” said Uric. “We assume the Eastern Empire has refused aid.”

Gant nodded and Abadis spat. “Stupid men. They don’t realize where their best interests lie.”

Uric went on as if uninterrupted. “It is up to the Dark Elves and the King of Mulldain, and neither have large armies. Sarona has sent out runners to ask for the king’s help. Rumor has it that King Tirmus is hiding there. If that’s true, Mulldain will help, and Tirmus may have gathered his knights, those that escaped. Still, it won’t be much. Of course Abadis and I will do what we can, but you must defeat Varg if we are to have a chance.”

“I hope I can,” said Gant.

“You will. Believe in yourself. We will do what we can when the time comes, but even our magic can only slow a Demon-Prince, and not for long. Valorius is our only hope.  As for the sword, Abadis says you used it against Egog. Let me see the sword.” Uric held out one hand.

Gant pulled Valorius from its scabbard and handed it to Uric. The sage held it lightly, as if measuring something about the sword. For a moment his eyes narrowed to slits, his stare intent on the blade. “Yes, some of the magic is gone.”

“How much?” asked Abadis. “Is it still strong enough to stop Varg?”

“Who can say? I have never done battle with Varg. Only Bartholomew knows what strength Varg possesses. But have hope.  Bartholomew may have seen this turn of events. And who knows what help the elves may be.” Uric returned the sword to Gant.

Gant fondled Valorius. Uric’s words resurfaced in his mind. Yes, it had come to this. He had hoped it wouldn’t, had wished the killing would stop. But it hadn’t. And whether he liked it or not, it wasn’t going to stop unless they did something about it. He had defeated Egog. Varg might be a different matter. He’d have to trust Bartholomew and do whatever he could. At least when it was over, he could go back to Dalphnia and set things right with her.

“I brought help, too,” said Gant, snapping out of his reverie. “A great warrior named Zandinar, the Emperor Pris and four of his soldiers.”

Uric nodded.  “Zandinar will indeed be a force in this,” he said, “and any soldiers will help.”

“Enough,” said Abadis, stepping between the two. “Sarona has requested our presence in the morning, and you should sleep.”

“What does she want of me?” asked Gant.

“She wants to meet Bartholomew’s descendant. And I would guess, she’ll let us in on her plan to keep Gorth west of the Monoliths. We’ll know soon enough.” He clapped Gant on the shoulder and led him down a short hall off the sitting room.  At the first doorway they turned into a luxurious suite.

Gant noticed two other bedrooms sprouted off the hall like leaves from a clover stem. Uric and Abadis’ rooms guessed Gant.  He followed the wizard into the room.

“This is your room,” said Abadis.  “Get some sleep.”

Abadis left, closing the door behind him and within minutes Gant had his armor off and was fast asleep on a strange floating bed that supported his weight without touching the floor.

#

Gant woke up sometime later, rested and refreshed except for a gnawing hunger. He rose, eager for breakfast.  He washed his face and hands in the silver water bowl someone had left on a table against the wall. Then he dressed, donned his armor, buckled on Valorius, and went back up the short hall to the sitting room.

Uric and Abadis sat at the table, a bowl of fruit, nuts and sweet breads in front of them.

“Good morning,” said Uric, looking up as Gant walked to the table. “You look better this morning than last night.”

“Feel better, too,” said Gant, biting into a crisp red apple.

Abadis and Uric got up and went to another table where they spread out a small map. Gant wolfed down several more pieces of fruit and two of the tasty sweet breads. He washed it down with a glass of the purest, most refreshing water he’d ever tasted. His hunger blunted, Gant went to look at the map with Abadis and Uric.

“Blasseldune will be his next target,” said Uric, flatly. “To do that he’ll have to come through Chamber Pass. With the confidence he’s built during the last campaign, he won’t believe we can stop him. That is his weakness.”

“Perhaps,” said Abadis, “but maybe he’ll be satisfied being Lord of the West. What can he gain by attacking Blasseldune?”

“Men of power are never satisfied. The power he gains only feeds his lust for more.”

Abadis grimaced. “Yes. I suspect you are right. In any case we’ll need to prepare for the worst. We should talk this over with Lord Barkmar before the Queen holds her meeting.”

Hastily, Abadis folded the parchment map and put it in a pocket in his robes. The pair stood, and turning, walked to the door.

Gant followed them. “I’ll go with you.”

“No need,” said Abadis over his shoulder. “This won’t take long. Relax, enjoy the food.”

Gant sat down, wondering what the Queen was like.  He munched on some of the nutmeats and for the first time in a long time he relaxed.

The door opened behind him and an elf entered.

“Are you Gant?” asked the elf, bowing slightly from the waist.

“Yes.”

“Follow me please. Your friends wish you to join them.”

So soon, he wondered, but got up and followed the elf down a long twisting corridor. They went down several more sets of winding stairs and Gant guessed they must be near the heart of the mountain.

Eventually they entered a large domed, chamber. The central portion of the room was empty, only a smooth stone floor. Around the sides, in raised sections, were rows of stone chairs, many with animal furs draped over them. The seats were empty and the room was ominously silent. The escort led Gant to the middle of the vast circular arena and stopped.

“Give me your sword. No weapons are allowed beyond this point.”

Gant started to reach for Valorius. “Where is everyone?  Where is Uric and Abadis?”

The elf lunged for Valorius. Gant jerked back.  The elf reached again for Gant’s sword.  Gant hit the elf under the chin with his right mailed fist, knocking him to the floor.  The elf lay still.

What was going on? Gant glanced around. Entrances ringed the central arena about every thirty feet. Which way had they come in? That one, he thought. How was he going to get back to his room? He hadn’t seen a single elf during the last ten minutes. He couldn’t possibly remember all the twists and turns.

With an audible swish, a door opened behind Gant. He turned to face it. A tall figure stepped into the arena wearing black armor that flickered with a light of its own. The high crested helm was curved to deflect sword blows. In the stranger’s left hand was a sword, not unlike Valorius. On his right arm was a golden shield.

The warrior walked to the center of the chamber, stopped, bowed to Gant and then, without a word, charged.  His long, leaping strides covered the distance between them with amazing speed, the slivery sword held ready to attack or defend.

What was happening?  The Dark Elves were friends.  Surely this was a mistake.  The mysterious warrior reached Gant and slashed viciously at Gant’s neck.  At the last instant, Gant dodged and the sword smashed down on Gant’s shoulder.

There was an explosion of light and thunder. The pressure of the blow raced through Gant’s nerves but the sword failed to cut through Gant’s armor.

“What do you want?” yelled Gant.

Even as he spoke, Valorius sprang into Gant’s hand. His attacker lashed out with a flurry of slashes.  Gant turned aside each attack with an effortless parry, smoothly deflecting with the flat of Valorius’ blade. Like fireworks, brilliant light flared each time the swords touched.

Still, Gant struck no offensive blow. He could not bring himself to attack without knowing why.

As the battle wore on, the black figure began to tire. Now an inky darkness began to form around the black armor. It clung to the air like an impenetrable thunderhead, surging, billowing until it blinded Gant. Twice in quick succession blows rang off Gant’s head and breast.

Still Gant’s armor held. Each contact brought a flash like lightning in a midnight storm.  In desperation Gant held Valorius out in front of him, gripping her hilt with both hands. The sword began to vibrate, humming at an ever-increasing pitch until the sound passed out of Gant’s hearing range. Whatever the effect, there were no more attacks.  Gant just wanted to end this combat and get out of the darkness. And then Valorius began to glow, brighter and brighter, eating away the darkness. Soon Gant stood in the center of a blazing nova.

In a fury, Gant swung a two-handed stroke at his opponent’s sword. There was a flash of light indistinguishable from Valorius’ fiery radiance and Valorius cut through the other blade as if it were paper.

With a dull clatter, the blade fell to the floor leaving the black figure holding a useless hilt. Then with a deft down stroke, Gant split the black breastplate like opening a clam and brought Valorius’ razor tip to rest against the exposed throat.

“Yield, warrior,” yelled Gant, the blood rushing in his temples.

Instead, the black clad figure twisted, trying to pull Valorius from Gant’s hands. Gant lunged. The blade sank into the flesh at the base of the throat. The warrior went down in a heap, blood gushing like a fountain.

Gant sheathed Valorius. “Now what?” he asked himself.

He went to the unconscious form of the elf who had brought him to the cavern. A slap to the cheek brought him around. Gant pulled Valorius and pushed the point under the dark chin.