Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (8 page)

Gant lurched backwards, staggered and went down on one knee. His mind whirled, bees buzzed in his brain.  Zeigone snickered and moved in for the finishing strike, a two-handed, overhand blow.

But he savored the moment an instant too long.  Through the haze, Gant saw the opening and his reflexes responded.  Gant whisked the deathblow aside, and counterattacked in a blur of motion.  His sword caught Zeigone at the joint between helm and body armor.  A sickening, rending sound split the air.  A gush of red spewed over the front of the black breastplate.  Gant watched from a dazed stupor.  The great sword slipped from Zeigone’s hand and fell harmlessly to the ground.  Zeigone tottered and fell with a crash of metal.

Pages rushed to remove the fallen man’s helm and then bustled his body away to the medicine tent.  Gant struggled to his feet.  Statue-like he watched them clear the field.  The taste of death gagged him.  He turned to leave.  He needed a place to retch.  But arms were around him. Jarlz first, followed by the crowd.  They shoved and jostled him to the king’s stand.

Hardly able to stand, Gant stared up at the king, wobbling unsteadily.

“Oh Gant of the Ironlimbs,” began the king, a smile on his thin lips, “Champion today.  Come forward and claim your prize.”

The king held up a small leather sack that clinked with gold coins.

“Well, ‘Ironlimb,’” said Jarlz through a broad smile, clutching Gant around the shoulder to steady him, “I told you you were ready.”

Gant sagged against his uncle.  Someone lifted the sword from his stiff fingers.  With Jarlz for support, Gant stumbled from the field, his body shaking from both fatigue and guilt.  His uncle helped him to the combatants’ tent and pulled off Gant’s armor.  A page brought warm water and rubbed Gant’s aching muscles.  A doctor followed the page and cleansed Gant’s wounds.  The head wounds caused considerable concern and the doctor suggested that Gant be taken someplace quiet to rest.  With assurances from Jarlz, the doctor left.

Finally, once Gant had on clean clothes, Jarlz helped him to Jarlz’ favorite inn.  Amidst a torrent of well-wishers Jarlz rented a room upstairs near the back where they could have a semblance of quiet.  It was all Gant could do to climb the stairs and trudge to the end of the hall.  The day’s events seemed like a dream.  He flopped into bed without removing his clothes and immediately fell into a stupor-like sleep.

Chapter 13

T
he next morning a soft tap at the door woke Gant.  He rubbed his eyes, stretched stiff shoulder muscles, and rolled from the straw-filled mattress.  He felt his head and was surprised there was no ugly wound.

“Who's there?”

“Uric.”

The sage is always near, thought Gant, and opened the door.  Uric entered carrying a huge cloth sack bulging with lumpy objects.  Today his amethyst robes hung from his shoulders wrinkled and dusty.  Gant thought he looked as if he'd been rummaging in a closet.

Uric dropped the bag on the floor with a metallic thud.

Gant looked at the sack.  Whatever it was it couldn’t be that important. “How’s Chamz?” he asked.

“Chamz is fine.  Right now it's more important for you to know the truth,” said Uric, straightening.  “You are the one in the prophecy, the prophecy written by your great-great-great grandfather, Bartholomew.  He was the greatest practitioner of magic that has ever been, unless you count the ancients at Tirumfall, though that was so long ago no one can separate truth and legend.” 

Uric paused, muttered, “But I digress.”  And then continued, “In Bartholomew's time, a demon lord named Varg ruled the dark elves.  Varg had taken female slaves from the fair elves and from them he fathered the race of dark elves.  He forced them to perform evil at his command.  By chance, Bartholomew met and fell in love with the dark elf queen, Celestina. For a time they met in secret using Bartholomew’s powerful magic to shield them from Varg’s spies, cloaking them in invisibility. Eventually, through research in ancient magical tomes, Bartholomew gained sufficient knowledge to exile Varg back to the realms of darkness.

“Bartholomew knew that magic is ever changing and that somehow, sometime, Varg would be recalled by evil men who would attempt to use the demon's powers to rule the world.  Looking into the future, his worst fears were confirmed.  Varg would be recalled.  And worse, Bartholomew saw that future wizards would not have the power to stop Varg.  Therefore he made this magical armor and sword for his distant grandson who would win at the Devonshield games.  For you.  In your hands it can defeat Varg once and for all.”

At this Uric flipped open the sack.  Gant peered in at a beautiful set of silvery armor and the most magnificent sword he'd ever seen.  The shiny hilt was engraved in the shape of a huge dragon standing beside a lone warrior.  Slowly, Gant reached down and pulled the sword from the scabbard.  As his hand withdrew the gleaming length of metal, a pulsing vibration tingled through his hand.

“May I present the sword Valorius Goodenkil,” said Uric.

Gant examined the blade, marveling at the perfection, the flawless mastery of the smith's art.  Yet there was more to this sword than any smith could have fabricated.  The sword was without the tiniest mark, as if formed in an instant without the smith's hammer.  He slid his thumb across her edge and the skin parted without pain.  Gant looked in awe at the tiny drop of blood that oozed from the slit.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked, holding it up.

“When the time comes, kill Varg. However, I must warn you that even this sword has been infused with only a limited, though very large, dose of positive magical energy and any time it meets negative magic it will be drained at least a little.  Only Bartholomew himself was powerful enough to wield the level of magic held in this sword but it is not limitless.  Don’t waste it. Likely you’ll need every bit of power in Valorius to put an end to Varg.”

“Okay,” said Gant.  “When will that be?  How will I know when it arrives?”

“I believe it may have already come.  A night of darkness passed some time ago and only on such a night when neither moon is visible can Varg be summoned.”

“I don't want to kill anymore.  I'm not interested in prophecies or elves or demons.  I want to go home.”

“How will you do that?”

“I don't know.”  In his heart Gant knew that until something ended his exile he could not go home.

“Nonetheless these are for you,” said Uric.  “In the end you may find that some things are beyond your control.  Beyond anyone's control.”

Gant slid Valorius back into the scabbard.  “How did you get these things if Bartholomew lived so long ago?”

“I also lived then.  Bartholomew made them and entrusted them to me to give to his grandson when the time was right.”

“How could you have been alive then?  You must be more of a wizard than he was.”

“I am not a wizard, in fact, not a man.  But I knew your great-great grandfather well, maybe too well.  I see a lot of the goodness that was in him in you. You do not wish to harm others even those who deserve it.  But when the time comes you do what must be done.”

“Not a man!  Then who, what, are you?”

“It doesn’t matter.  I have fulfilled my promise to Bartholomew.  Now I have to return to Netherdorf and settle a few details with King Tirmus.  Then I shall be off to find out if Varg is in our world, and if so, where.  I expected to see signs of his presence and so far there have been none.”

“Maybe you are wrong.  Maybe he hasn’t come.”

“Maybe he has not been summoned yet.  There is another night of darkness in a few months but so much of the prophecy has come true I think Varg must be here.”

Uric turned to go.  Gant let his hand caress the fine, silvery armor and felt strange whispers calling to him.  He didn't want it, didn't want to kill, not even Varg.  He didn't want the responsibility.

He looked up and saw Uric's dusty back going out the door.  “In the meantime, don't you think someone else should use the sword and armor, someone who would put it to better use?”

“No one else
can
use it.  The sword and armor were given magical abilities to identify and imprint their one and only owner.  They know you now and cannot be used by anyone else.”

Gant hesitated.  What did that mean?  That he couldn't refuse them.  Uric was nearly gone when Gant found his tongue.  “Thanks.  Thanks for everything.  The sword is beautiful.  Better than any I've ever seen, let alone hoped to make.”

“Use it wisely.  The sword’s magic is not limitless.”

With that Uric was gone.  Gant stood staring at Valorius wondering what to do. 

#

Gant sat on his mattress fretting over the turn of events.  A piece of history had fallen on him and threatened to take over his life.  Conquer Varg?  What kind of courage would it take to face a demon?  And even if he defeated Varg would King Tirmus pardon him and allow him to return home?  Well, if it would get him home again, he'd like to get on with it right away.  Not that that seemed likely.  Uric didn't even know if Varg had come yet.  What was Gant to do?

A loud knock interrupted his thoughts.  “Open up,” bellowed Jarlz.

Gant stood up, shuffled to the door and opened it.  “What do you want?” he asked, stepping back to let Jarlz in.

“Lad, don't you know it is customary for the winner to buy the rest of the contenders a drink?  You've slept the afternoon away and now the inn downstairs is full.  They're waiting for you.”

“So, you buy them a drink.  Here's some money,” said Gant pulling the coin purse from his belt and tossing it to Jarlz.

“By the Great Dragon's fire, lad, you can't keep all these people waiting.  They want you.  You're the champion.”

Jarlz put one huge arm around Gant's shoulder and pulled him toward the door.  “Come on.  Worry about your troubles tomorrow.  Tonight we honor the losers.”

Gant pulled back.

“What's the matter with you?” asked his uncle.

“I may be a champion here but at home I'm an outlaw.”

“Gant.”  Jarlz's smile faded.  “Don't dwell on it.  In time we may be able to reverse things.  Heroes have become nobles before.  And being glum the rest of your life isn't going to change it.  Now come on, have a drink with those who think they have a new hero.  Tomorrow you can have to yourself.”

“All right.  All right,” said Gant, shaking his head.  He might not feel like it, but the others who had fought in the games deserved better.

Together they trooped down to the large common room. A roar went up when the crowd caught sight of Gant.  For a moment Gant's knees went weak.  So many men cheering for him.  Or were they just cheering for free ale?  No matter.  It felt strange.  They praised him, yet he had let so many people down.  If they only knew.

“Good show,” said one rugged fellow as Gant passed on his way to the central table where a spot was held open for him.

“Right here,” said Jarlz, pointing to a stool at the head of the table.

Gant sat and looked around at the throng gathered in the inn.  He hardly recognized anyone.  Who were all these people?

“What will you have, sir?” asked the serving maid who appeared at Gant's elbow.

“Ale.”  Gant looked at Uncle Jarlz who nodded with a sly wink.  “And ale for everyone.”

A cheer went up and the serving maid hustled off with her wooden tray to get mugs of ale.  Gant fumbled with his purse, wishing to be ready with payment when the girl returned.  Before he could get the purse from his belt, the huge man at his right reached over and laid a hairy hand on Gant's forearm.

“Good work,” said the warrior.  “You've rid us all of scum that deserved to die.  Here's to your health.”  He gulped down the remains of whatever was in his mug, laughed and slapped Gant on the back.  “Stuck him like the pig he was.”

“Well. . .” Gant swallowed, wishing the ale would arrive.  He eyed the man curiously.  The black haired, black-skinned swordsman was dressed in strange animal skins.  He wore silver jewelry inlaid with greenish-blue stones.  Gant had seen a few others dressed similarly at his father's smithy and only remembered that they were from one of the southern lands.

“It was a lucky blow, hardly what you'd call skillful,” he added looking down the table, not wishing to offend the stranger.

“Modest, too,” said someone farther down the table.

With that the conversation rose to a level that made Gant's ears ring.  All this commotion, especially about him, was unnerving.  Again he fumbled with the purse, looking down to undo the thongs that held it to his belt.  He hoped Uncle Jarlz would let him go back to his room soon.  As he struggled with the purse, he spotted a familiar sword at the side of another stranger who had squeezed up next to the table.  Gant recognized the sword as one his father had made, one of his better ones.  He recognized the sword, but he did not recognize the man who carried it.

Gant tried to remember who had commissioned that particular sword.  He could not.  His father made too many to remember them all.  Nevertheless, Gant was certain he'd never seen the man next to him.  How did he get the sword?

An ale appeared in front of Gant and the server asked for three gold coins as payment.  Gant counted out three pieces of gold, his mind still preoccupied by the mysterious appearance of his father's sword.

Jarlz nudged him as he was about to hand the girl the coins.  “An extra coin is in order.”

“Oh, yes, sorry,” said Gant and added a fourth coin before handing them to her.  “Thanks.”

“Most generous, sir,” she said with a twinkle in her eye as she turned and scurried off.

Gant leaned over and took a sip from his ale.  Still curious, he turned to the stranger with his father’s sword.  “Excuse me for asking,” he began, “but where did you get that weapon you carry?”

“Yes, it is a nice piece,” said the stranger, “not magic or anything like that but she carries a good edge and holds it well.  I found it a week or so ago.  Quite a mess it was.  I stumbled on it outside a cave near the trail from Falls Hill to Blasseldune.  It's a well-known stopping place for travelers along that road.  I dare say I won't be stopping there again.”

Gant studied the man.  Was he joking?  Who left a perfectly good sword lying about?  “You found it?”

“That's what I said.  Never did find the owner or his body.  Course I didn't look too hard either.”  At this he laughed, throwing his head back and roaring as if he'd told a great joke.  Following the laughter he poured down the remains of his ale in one long gulp.  “Whatever got 'em, I wasn't hanging around to tangle with it.”

“Bandits?”

“No.  I swear it was no man did this.  A dragon more likely.”

“A dragon?  What makes you so sure?”

“I’m not sure.  Like I said, I didn't see whatever it was.  But there was a lot of soot, smoke-blackened stones and the like.  And there were no bodies, though there was plenty of blood and some bits of skin and muscle.  Maybe it wasn't a dragon.  I suppose there are other things in this world that could have done it, but my guess is that it was a dragon.”

“Where exactly was this?”  Now Gant was intrigued whether the story was true or false.

“Like I said, I was traveling north along the road from Falls Hill on my way to Blasseldune.  About half way between Falls Hill and the Rushon River there's a place where a little path goes off to the east through a grove of aspens.  It leads to this cave.  Lots of travelers use it, and I'm no different.  So, I was looking forward to a good night's camp but when I got to the cave there's a mess around the opening.  Lots of blackened stones, burned grass and trampled bushes.  It's all torn up.  And there amongst the mess is this sword lying on the ground, no scabbard mind you, like his owner dropped it in the midst of a fight.  It had a couple of pretty big nicks in the edge, like maybe whoever was swinging it hit the rock around the cave mouth or something.  I took one look around, grabbed it and rode out of there.”