Ossendar: Book Two of the Resoration Series (67 page)

Flare reached the next stone hill, and turned back to motion Philip across. He was a little irritated to see that Philip was already a quarter of the way across. His blood was simmering; he had specifically told the man to wait until he had crossed the bridge.

Forcing himself to breathe slowly, while he waited patiently for Philip to reach him. He was ready to snap the man in two.

A few moments later, Philip stepped off of the bridge, a smile playing across his face. He pointed past Flare, “Look, another bridge.” His mood actually seemed pleasant.

“Philip,” Flare said, trying to keep his voice calm. “I told you to wait until I crossed the bridge before you came across. So why didn't you follow my orders.”

Philip's face was stony, showing no emotion. “Oh. Sorry about that. I didn't understand that you wanted me to wait until you were completely across the bridge before I started.”

Taking a deep breath, Flare let it pass. Philip had been in another of his moods today, and honestly Flare didn't blame him. There was a lot of pressure on all of them, what, with trying to find the sword, and running low on food. “Well, this time, wait until I am completely across the bridge before you start across.”

Philip gave the smallest of nods in answer.

They kept moving around the lake via the bridges. There were a total of twelve bridges in all, spanning from one side of the cavern to the other. The bridges followed the arc of the circular side of the cavern. Several of the bridges were fairly short, ten to twenty yards, but most were longer than forty. Each of the bridges ended in a solid stone hill, a small island in a great sea of lava.

The last bridge ended onto another ledge. This ledge was bigger than the one on the side where they had entered the cavern; much larger, in fact. Actually, the wall hung over the ledge in many spots, making what looked like little caves all along the side of the ledge.

Flare stepped off of the last bridge, and slowly moved forward scanning the ledge. At the very center of the ledge, up against a small overhang, was a stone rectangular box.

Exhilaration flooded through Flare, and quite a bit of apprehension as well. He heard a sound behind him and turned to see Philip stepping off of the bridge, with Atock not too far behind. It didn't even register that Philip had to be following right behind him to already be at the ledge. It wouldn't have bothered him even if he had realized it. Kind of hard to blame them for wanting to be here.

Flare walked slowly towards the stone box, not even noticing that the others were right there with him.

“What is it?” Atock asked.

He didn't even take his eyes off the box, but just shook his head in answer. “Only one way to find out.”

As they neared the box, more of the details came into view. The box sat under a small semi-circular overhang, and actually it wasn't a box at all. It was a stone coffin. The top cover was a solid stone piece that had been carved into the likeness of a man. Well, not really a man, but an elf.

Flare's insides seemed to knot up, just looking at the carving. If they were correct, the carving was a depiction of his ancestor, King Osturlius. That was thrilling in one respect, but scary in another; his ancestor, the last of the Dragon Order.

As overwhelming as finding the grave of his ancestor was, he didn't spend much time thinking about those things, because something else quickly caught his attention. On top of the carving, lay a sword.

It was a rather plain looking sword, certainly not something any of the Telurian nobles would have worn. The long blade had runes etched on it, completely down the center of the blade on the Fuller. He looked closer, and realized that there wasn't even a spot of rust anywhere on the blade. The Cross-guard was slightly curved, but not very ornamental. The grip was covered in what looked like leather and then wrapped with wire. The grip was long enough for two hands, even though the sword looked short enough to be wielded with just one hand. A small metal pommel at the end of the hilt contained a white stone. Not a shiny or bright eye catching stone, but a dark stone that wasn't all that noticeable.

A small lump formed in Flare's throat. He was excited about finding the sword, but that was tempered with anxiety about what the sword meant. Too late to think about that now, though.

He started to take a step forward, but Philip moved first. Stepping up to the edge of the stone coffin, Philip reached out his hand to take the sword.

Irritation ignited within Flare, but he forced it back down. Then another thought occurred to him. If he let Philip carry the sword back, then perhaps he could avoid this awful destiny. Hope began to grow within his chest. Perhaps there was a way out of this after all.

Philip, still in the act of reaching out, froze.

“What's the matter?” Atock asked quickly.

“I don't know.” Philip answered. “There's something blocking me from reaching the sword.”

“I don't see anything,” Flare said, frowning.

“Well, I don't see anything either,” Philip snapped back. “But I assure you it's there.”

Atock stepped forward, “Let me try.” He too reached out his hand, and stopped at the same point where Philip had stopped. He shook his head. “Feels solid.”

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Flare stepped forward. “Let me try.” Philip moved backwards out of his way, and he stepped up next to the left side of Atock. Slowly, and with his hand shaking a little, Flare reached out to grasp the sword.

There was a sudden movement to Flare's right, and then a resounding crack and Atock collapsed, hitting the ground hard.

Flare tried to dive to his left, but something still grazed his head, stunning him a little. He hit the edge of the stone lid, and fell over the edge of it, landing at the foot end of the carving. Dazed, he still scrambled around the corner of the coffin, standing back up with the stone coffin between him and whatever had attacked them.

Flare wasn't sure what he expected to see, perhaps a demon left to guard the body. But there wasn't a demon, or Zalustus, or one of Zalustus' lieutenants, or even a goblin. There was Philip; just Philip.

Chapter 28

Flare stared in disbelief, rubbing the side of his head where he had been struck. “Philip,” he asked quietly, “What in the name of the abyss are you doing?”

Philip was breathing hard, and his face was red. He still held the rock that he had used to hit both Atock and Flare. “What am I doing? Is that what you asked me?” He was loud, borderline shouting. He pointed at Flare. “I defended you to High Priest Olliston and to my father. They said you were the one that Kelcer warned of, but I didn't believe them, but you are the one.” His voice was strained, as if he still didn't want to believe it.

Flare was dazed but even so, some things made a little more sense now, the mood swings, the anger, and even Philip insisting on following on his heels over the bridges. “Philip! You know me better than that.” He said, but Philip interrupted him.

“Don't lie! I followed you last night. I saw you drop the torch and then what did you do? You used magic. A soldier using magic! You are an abomination. I was even prepared to go against my church for you, and you are the one!” Philip's voice shook with anger and emotion.

“Philip,” Flare said, raising his hands in a placating manner, “I admit that I have learned a few magic spells and maybe I shouldn't have done that, but you know that I am not an evil person. I cannot be the person that Kelcer spoke of, you have to know that deep inside.” He spoke slowly and clearly, trying to penetrate the emotion in which Philip had wrapped himself. He had to stop this, and now! Philip had already attacked both Atock and himself, and who knew where this might wind up if he didn't do something about it quickly.

“No!” Philip shouted. He looked down at the rock that was still in his hand. He opened his fingers and let the stone drop from his hand. He raised his eyes to watch Flare, and then slowly drew his sword from its sheath.

“Philip,” Flare said, panic and fear breaking over him, as his worst fears were realized. “You can't do this. It's me. You don't want to fight me.”

Philip shook his head and dropped his eyes. “No, I don't want to fight you.” Flare started to breathe easier, but Philip forestalled it. “I don't want to fight you, but I have to.”

Now it was Flare shaking his head, “No, you don't. I won't fight you.”

“Good.” Philip said, the emotion gone from his voice. “That will make it easier and quicker.”

There was no warning or sign. One moment they were just talking, almost calmly, and then Philip lunged forward trying to skewer Flare over the stone lid.

Clang!

Flare and Philip both looked down. Flare had reacted, reacted without even thinking about what he was doing. He looked down to see that he had blocked Philip's lunge with the sword of Osturlius. He had instinctively grabbed the sword, and whatever had blocked Philip and Atock from picking up the sword, hadn't even slowed him down. In a flash, his hand had wrapped around the sword hilt and jerked it upwards, leaving the point of the sword on the lid of the coffin. Philip had lunged forward, his sword straight out in front of him, trying to impale him. Flare's sudden moved had deflected Philip's lunge.

Philip's eyes widened and he stepped backwards, his eyes narrowing. “So, you're not the one, huh?”

Flare picked the sword up, and took a step backwards, trying to keep the coffin in between him and Philip. “Philip. I won't fight you.”

Philip smiled, but it was without mirth. “Yes, you will.” His voice was completely calm, not even a trace of emotion came through. He took a step to Flare's left, so Flare moved to his right, just hoping that he could keep the coffin between them. He stopped and sighed, “This has to happen.”

“No it doesn't. Trust me.”

Philip just snorted in reply, and then in a flash he jumped up on the coffin lid and then down on Flare's side. He swung his sword in a downward arc, and Flare instinctively raised his sword. The blades collided with a mighty clang, and Flare's whole arm shook from the blow.

Philip didn't give him a chance to collect his thoughts, but instead rained blow after blow down on him. Overhand swings were quickly followed by horizontal swings, and even upward swings. He swung like a man possessed; sweat flying from his face and arms.

Flare furiously deflected blow after blow, barely able to breathe with the number of the swings Philip was taking. The blade of Osturlius, or Ossendar as it was actually named, felt right in his hand. It felt less like a sword, and more like an extension of his own arm.

In the middle of a horizontal swing, Philip suddenly changed his attack. He lunged forward, trying to catch Flare off guard and run him through.

Flare barely changed his defensive swing in time. The fat part of the blade just under the hilt was what actually clipped Philip's blade and deflected the attack. That bit of luck saved his life, if only for the moment. Philip was momentarily thrown off balance, and Flare slipped past him and around the edge of the coffin. Under the overhang and behind the coffin was a very confining space and Flare wanted to get out into the open part of the ledge.

Quickly retreating to the center of the ledge, Flare spared a glance in Atock's direction. The big man was still lying in a heap, and still not moving.

Flare pushed the concern for Atock away. There was nothing he could do to help Atock if Philip managed to run him through with a sword.

“Philip,” Flare said with a note of desperation in his voice. “Please don't do this!”

Philip walked around the edge of the coffin, shaking his head. “Don't waste your breath, Flare. I know what I must do for my faith, for my church.”

He launched himself forward, stabbing at Flare's chest. There was another ringing clang as Flare easily deflected the blow, and then Flare struck back, but carefully, he aimed to hit Philip directly in his shoulder. Hoping to disarm him more than anything, but he missed.

Philip easily avoided the precision attack, but he was still overextended from his lunge. He attacked the only way he could; he slammed the hilt of his sword directly into Flare's face.

The blow caught Flare in the mouth, his lip busted, and the blood began to flow freely. He intentionally fell backwards, trying to get away.

Philip sliced his sword horizontally, aiming for Flare's throat but he missed, and caught Flare in the left shoulder. Blood sprayed from the wound.

Flare landed on his back, a little dazed. The sword flew from his hand as pain exploding in his shoulder. Luckily his right shoulder was okay. At least he would be able to fight, if he could regain his sword, that is. He realized with a start that they were near where the ledge dropped off, he was surprised they were that close. It was strange what thoughts ran through a person's head when he was fighting for his life. He started to sit up, the pain running down his left arm, but he slipped on the sand that covered the ledge.

Philip showed no mercy, but dove forward, raising his sword to impale Flare.

Once again, Flare's instincts saved his life. Pushing away the emotion and fear, Flare focused and reached out with his spirit. He flailed about trying to find something nearby with which to defend himself. Ossendar had fallen too far to be used in time. He used the only thing he could find, the very sand that surrounded him.