Son of the Dragon (The Netherworld Gate Book 3) (9 page)

CHAPTER 7

Talon traveled for days through the forest. The trees and underbrush were thick, slowing him down considerably, but they provided shelter and protection. He knew he would be far better off traversing the dense forest than attempting the road.

In the late afternoon on the third day he came to the ruined rubble that had once been Elroa’s tower. It was little more than a heap of stone and brick now. One wall remained partially intact, jutting upward fifteen feet or so into the air. The jagged bricks lent the ruin an eerie edge. Talon thought to inspect the area, in part to relive the battle he had had there with two gnomes that nearly bested him. Granted, they had magic on their side, but all the same the thought of two diminutive figures giving him a challenge irked him.

He might have gone in to relive the battle had he not caught sight of the faint wisp of smoke rising from behind the jagged wall. Talon knew that the tower itself would not still be smoldering from the magical explosion that had leveled it. Someone was here.

He edged closer, quietly creeping from the forest to the taller grasses near the rubble. As he neared the structure, his nose caught the scent of soup. Now he was certain that someone was in fact here.

Talon drew his daggers and crept around the side, crouching low to the ground and peering around the wall as carefully as he could manage.

There was a hole dug in the ground near the wall. Smoke and steam rose out of the hole, and he could hear the sound of boiling water. A long, silvery box lay tucked neatly against the wall, but there was no one to be seen.

The hairs on the back of Talon’s neck rose to stand on end.

He pressed back from the wall and leapt away just as a form came crashing in. A sword clashed against the stone wall and broke apart.

Talon squared off against his enemy, recognizing him as the human he had crossed paths with several times.

“You are a hard one to kill,” Talon said.

The assailant narrowed his eyes on Talon and then his mouth dropped open as realization dawned on him. Talon nodded and grinned wickedly.

“You were dead,” the attacker said as he tossed the broken blade to the ground and went for a curved knife at his belt.

“It didn’t suit me,” Talon said mockingly.

The attacker didn’t advance. Instead, he seemed to relax ever so slightly, though he still held his knife at the ready. “You were at Governor Gandle’s house. Tell me why.”

Talon laughed. “Don’t tell me you followed me here from Rasselin?” Talon sneered.

The man shook his head and glared at Talon. “You killed Captain Lador, didn’t you?”

Talon nodded. “I did. I take it that you were the Ranger that was bothering Governor Gandle?”

“I am Kai,” the man said with a nod. “Gandle worked with a group of human traffickers that kidnapped my sister.”

“Yes, I heard that you had paid them back for their trespasses,” Talon admitted, looking at the ranger with a certain respect he had not felt for an opponent in many years. “Lador was the price to pay for information that Gandle had. You were part of the bargain as well, but you were not in your cell when I got there. Once Gandle handed me the information I needed, I tied that particular loose end off as well.”

“Governor Gandle told you where the relics were, didn’t he?” Kai asked.

Talon nodded, considering Kai as he took a few slow steps to the side, moving to bring the silvery box more directly into view, and watched as Kai mirrored his foot work with a confident, easy air. “A man like you could be useful,” Talon replied, speaking as much to himself as to Kai as an idea occurred to him. “We don’t have to fight here. We can call a truce. Just, give me back my sword and that will be the end of it.” Talon gestured to the box which he was now certain held Drekk’hul.

“You killed Lador,” Kai spat, bringing his curved knife up again. “Because of you, the other Rangers thought that I killed him. I had to kill two of my comrades to escape them.”

“Had to?” Talon asked mockingly. He shook his head. “No, you and I are more alike than you think. You didn’t have to kill them. You chose to do it.”

“No!” Kai shouted, pointing his knife at Talon and taking a quick step forward. “They were going to kill me. I had to.”

Talon pursed his lips together and shrugged. “I don’t usually extend an offer of partnership to others,” he insisted. “Come with me, we can do great things together.”

Kai shook his head. “Lador’s death must be avenged.”

Talon shrugged and pulled a dagger. “I don’t see why. By now war has swept through Rasselin. The order you belonged to no longer exists, much like the Svetli’Tai Kruks.”

Kai raised his hand with the red tattoo on it. “I am an agent of a Svetli’Tai Kruk Priestess. So, you see that our paths cannot cross without one of us dying.”

Talon thought back on Jahre’s warning. This was the man that could end Talon’s life. The assassin nodded to Kai. “Well then, are we to slice ourselves to pieces with our knives, or shall we go at it like animals with our fists?”

Kai lunged forward. Talon stepped to the side, blocking an incoming kick with his left shin and shooting his right forearm up to bar Kai’s left wrist, preventing a deadly knife stab. Talon punched Kai in the stomach with his left hand and then pushed forward. The two men grunted like battling boars. Kai came in with a sharp head-butt. Talon twisted, taking the strike in the shoulder and pushing Kai back into the wall.

Talon sprang forward, his dagger out and poised to strike, but Kai jumped up, back against the wall for support and threw both feet up in a double kick that caught Talon in the chest and staggered him backward.

Kai came in hard and fast, slashing down at Talon’s chest. Talon lurched backward and then jumped to the side, barely clearing a deft foot-sweep from Kai after the knife attack failed.

Talon reached down and pulled a second dagger. With a flick of his wrist he sent it toward Kai, but the ex-Ranger easily dodged the weapon.

“You have improved,” Talon said snidely.

Kai didn’t respond. He lunged in. He feinted a stab, but Talon didn’t take the bait. Instead, he dropped low and slashed his dagger across Kai’s left thigh. A thin line of crimson shot out to the side and sprinkled over the grass.

Kai dropped down with a savage elbow strike that caught Talon on the left side of his neck. The ex-Ranger followed that immediately with a swift kick to Talon’s face. The assassin’s head jerked upward and he caught the sunlight glinting off the blade just as Kai launched another knife strike.

Talon dropped to his back. Shooting his left hand up and catching Kai by the wrist, he pulled the man downward and directed the knife into the ground. At the same time, Talon brought his own dagger up and thrust it into Kai’s neck. The ex-Ranger’s eyes went wide and he grunted. His face went red and tears filled his eyes.

The assassin twisted the blade and pushed Kai off to the side. Kai gasped for breath, blood streaming out his neck and spilling across the ground. Still, the ex-Ranger managed to pull his knife from the dirt and point it at Talon. Unfortunately for him, Kai’s will was far stronger than his body. Talon easily stepped on Kai’s arm, pressing it and the knife to the ground. Talon then pulled his third dagger free and took in a quick breath as he lunged downward, plunging his blade into Kai’s heart. The ex-Ranger convulsed, arcing upward and shouting gargled words as blood erupted from his mouth and throat.

Then all was still.

Talon rose and looked down upon Kai. In that moment, he felt something he had not experienced for decades. It wasn’t exactly guilt. No, not anything quite so profound as that. Perhaps it was sadness. A tinge of regret mixed with respect for the warrior he had just slain. Whatever it was, Talon didn’t like it. He pushed it from his mind and turned for the sword.

The assassin rounded the wall and picked the box up in his hands. The mithril hummed and vibrated softly, as if protesting his having reacquired the sword.

“Drekk’hul,” Talon said as he turned the box over in his hands, looking for the way to open it. Nothing had been written in the book about how to open the container. That was left to Talon to figure out. Having learned through the years to appreciate simple solutions, Talon took the box in both hands and whacked one end against the stone wall until the weapon was free from its magical prison.

The end of the case popped open and the sword bounced out slightly. Talon smiled wide and went to grab it, but his hand froze inches away from the weapon. He knew that Jahre had said the curse would be gone, but Talon still remembered the voice all too well that had inhabited the sword. The thought of reuniting with that blood-crazed, demonic being was beyond unnerving.

Talon thought objectively for a moment about the book that Jahre had left him. Everything in it had been accurate, down to the last detail. Logically, it should follow that the elf sage was correct about the sword being cleansed as well.

The assassin took hold of the handle and let the mithril box slide to the ground. A grin tugged at his mouth and stretched his lips wide and thin when no voice assaulted his mind. The sword was quiet.

He pulled the blade free from the sheath and admired the gleaming weapon. He wondered if it still had any of its abilities.

He turned, facing away from the wall and pointed the sword out toward a stone on the ground. Previously, thinking about striking an object or enemy from a distance would have launched a bolt of purple and black lightning, but nothing happened now. The sword was quiet.

Talon frowned and gripped the handle with both hands. He focused on the weapon, trying to connect mentally with the blade and tap into its magic. As he concentrated, he felt a warm tingling in his hands.

The assassin smiled as a thick, purple fog formed around him. This was his favorite spell that the sword could cast. A fog that blinded his enemies, and yet would highlight any lifeform in a glowing violet light so Talon could easily attack them under the cover of darkness. So long as the weapon could at least do this, he would be happy.

To Talon’s dismay, the fog dissipated before he commanded it to.

“No,” Talon said angrily as he tried to will the fog to stay. It was no use, the sword was too weak. Talon shook his head in frustration. The cleansing had gone beyond removing the demonic presence within the sword, it had destroyed its magic.

Talon shoved the sword back into the sheath and dropped it on the ground next to the pit where the ex-Ranger’s soup was cooking. The assassin bent down and took the soup out of the pit and lifted the lid. At least his stomach would be satisfied with what the ex-Ranger offered. Venison soup.

A thought came to him then. What if the sword could still use its power, but it needed to recharge? Talon recalled that the more enemies he slew with it, the more powerful it had become. Talon grabbed the sword and walked over to the grotesquely split corpse on the ground. Blood was everywhere. Talon set the end sword down into the puddle of blood and waited.

At first, nothing happened. The blood stained the tip of the sword, but that was it. Then, after a few seconds of waiting, the sword absorbed the blood. Then, it drank thirstily, sucking and pulling the nearby blood to it and taking it in.

Talon felt the power as the connection formed with his mind and the tingling ran up his arm with increased intensity. The assassin lifted the blade and aimed it at a nearby tree. He barely thought of the spell before lightning jumped from the blade and scorched the tree, leaving a jagged, black scar across the broad trunk.

The assassin laughed softly to himself. Then he plunged the blade into the deceased body and let it recharge as much as it could.

CHAPTER 8

Deep within the desert sands south of the mountains that separate the kingdoms of Shausmat and Zinferth, a man made his way toward the High Temple of Basei. The wind whipped up dust around the man, forcing him to pull his tattered gray cloak tighter about him. He bent his head low toward the dirt path as his feet thumped one in front of the other. Under his cloak, the dented plate mail clanked and clanged loudly with each step.

He heard the gong long before he could see the temple through the screen of sand in the air around him. The loud, brassy ring sounded out in a rhythmic cadence and he soon found his footsteps falling in with the sounds. As he approached closer, a large building came into view.

Tan marble columns stretched thirty feet from the base of the temple to the pitched roof. A single staircase led into the great building. The man climbed the steps, nodding reverently to a priest wearing white robes just inside the doorway.

The man pulled the hood of his gray cloak back and took in the view of the temple with a soft smile. The light of the many torches revealed scars upon the man’s face, along with a fresh gash over his left eyebrow that had been sewn together. He moved through the main chamber of the temple, admiring the many depictions of Basei in battle painted on the walls surrounding him. A trio of priests huddled together at the front of the temple, each too busy to notice the pilgrim.

A younger priest emerged from the shadows behind a column off to the left and approached the man. “What brings you to the House of Basei?”

The man bowed his head humbly toward the priest. “I am Alfrin, Captain Alfrin Derien of the Shausmatian army. I have come to ask for a blessing from Basei.”

The young priest narrowed his brown eyes on Alfrin and inspected him from head to toe. “What do you bring as offering?”

Alfrin reached a trembling hand into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a small coin purse. “This is all I have. I pray that you will look upon an old soldier kindly.”

The young priest took the bag, bouncing it slightly in his hand to weigh the contents. He then smiled and gestured to a door in the nearby wall. “Come, I will take you to the prayer chamber.”

Alfrin nodded and followed the priest. They stepped through a short doorway that forced Alfrin to duck his head. The priest lit a candle and then set its flame to an oil lamp. The room was suddenly flooded with a warm, golden light. Alfrin fell to his knees instantly. There, before him, was a statue of Basei seated upon a throne of bones.

“Shall I lead you in prayer?” the priest asked.

Alfrin shook his head. “I know the prayer well enough.”

The priest cast a doubtful look upon Alfrin before leaving the chamber and closing the door behind him.

Alfrin slowly removed his cloak, careful to keep his gaze pointed at the floor just below the stone feet of the statue. He then removed his sword and laid it on the stone floor before him. He bowed low, touching his head to the floor and then began the prayer.

“Oh Basei, father of the sword, bring down your might and lend me your vengeance. For the enemy outnumbers me, yet I will not run. I am no coward, I am the battle’s son. No blade shall I fear, no enemy spare, till they break my body with sword and spear. Oh Basei, patron of fire, accept my soul in your obsidian spire.” As he finished the prayer, he looked up, daring only to look so far as the statue’s waist. He waited, as if expecting some sort of answer from the stone. After a few moments of silence, he continued. This time, however, he did not use the rote prayer expected of his kind. He offered up the intentions of his heart.

“Oh, Basei, great and powerful patron of battle, hear my plea. My son is in battle. Grant him strength. He fights in the lands north of Kobhir. Pockets of organized rebels, and other Zinferth soldiers have rallied defenses, and I fear for his safety.” Alfrin stopped here, fearing that he might be struck down for simply mentioning the word fear inside the sacred house of Basei. When no lightning shot out from the statue, Alfrin continued.

“I will give any sacrifice required, for the safety of my son. Please, watch over him. Guide his sword, and strengthen his arm.”

“Why not fight alongside him?” a voice called out from somewhere in the room.

Alfrin turned, but saw that the door was still closed. He searched the room, and finally realized that there was a space behind the statue.

“Who is there?” Alfrin asked.

“Answer my question,” the voice commanded. “Why are you not fighting alongside your son? Why, if he fights north of Kobhir, did you travel so far to the west to this temple? Do you fear battle?”

Alfrin shook his head. “I fear only that my son may die. I was not assigned to his battalion. I finished my duties honorably, and have been discharged with full honors.”

“Discharged?” the voice echoed. There was a hint of disbelief in the tone. “In a time of war?”

Alfrin nodded and his hand, trembling, moved up toward his chest. “I took a spear in battle. It nearly killed me. My superiors saw fit that I should be released from duty, and sent me home. On my way, I decided it best to make a pilgrimage here to pray for my son. I fought honorably, but I am now old and unfit for battle.” His hand went down to his left leg. “I took three arrows in my left knee. I have not the strength to run anymore.”

Something moved out from behind the statue. Alfrin saw the plain sandal, with straps wrapped around the stranger’s ankle and up the calf. A strange wrap, not unlike a skirt of some fashion, covered the stranger’s upper thighs and waist. It was fastened in place with a belt made from snake skin and a great, golden buckle. A wickedly curved khopesh sickle sword hung from the belt. The long blade of the ritual sword was made from a metal that Alfrin did not recognize. It was almost golden in hue, but was not actually gold. Above the waist, the stranger was naked, displaying rippling, hard muscles that twitched and flexed with each movement he made. On his wrists were leather bracers, with golden symbols of swords embossed on them. The man was bald, accentuating the black tattoos on his cheeks. Three tear drops under the left eye, and a wing of flames under the right.

“Do you know who I am?” the man asked.

Alfrin shook his head.

“I am one of Basei’s seraph.” As he finished saying those words, a pair of fiery wings that had heretofore been invisible unfolded behind him. Alfrin shrank back from the figure, shielding his face from the heat the fiery wings emitted. “Your prayer shall be answered, for I speak for Basei. However, it shall require a sacrifice.”

“Name it, and it shall be done,” Alfrin swore. “I am a faithful servant.”

The seraph stepped closer. He reached down to his curved sickle-sword and detached it from his belt. “Basei demands your life.”

Alfrin’s mouth fell open and his eyes lost their fire. His hands dropped to his sides and he bent his head to the floor.

“Sing the hymn,” the seraph commanded. “Sing the hymn proudly, so that Basei will accept your sacrifice.”

Alfrin stammered at first, but as the khopesh swung slowly in front of his face and he felt the heat from the seraph’s wings come closer, he found the words and tilted his head up to the statue of his god and sang with all the strength he had left.

Out in the fields of war,

Our sword we draw for thee,

Basei our God of War,

Let your rage dwell in me.

The blood of foes we spill,

To conquer lands unknown,

Though we bleed, help us still,

So thy might may be shown.

Basei our god, our rock,

If we fail by our blades,

And on thy door we knock,

Lay us down in thy glades.

Alfrin only barely finished the final verse before the khopesh lopped his head clean off. The seraph stuck his left hand out and uttered an incantation. A crimson mist rose from the wound and connected with the seraph’s hand as Alfrin’s life force was pulled from his body and absorbed into the seraph.

After all of Alfrin’s strength was absorbed, the seraph touched the body once more with his blade. The body was consumed by fire that burned white and blue until there was nothing left but ash.

The seraph turned and walked behind the statue. He rang a gong and then crossed into the astral plane before the young priest entered to clean the ashes from the floor.

The seraph glided through a space of purple and blue mist. A silvery fog hung thick and cold in this plane, but it did not bother the seraph. This was the plane from whence he had been born centuries before. Flying on instinct rather than sight, the seraph followed a course that took him to a large expanse of broken rock and vents of fire and lava. In the middle of this expanse was a large throne made entirely of bones.

Upon the throne sat Basei, the gargantuan demi-god of battle who had once been human. Basei was wearing his iron mask, hiding his face. His massive sword leaned against the left side of the throne, and a great shield hung on the right. Basei’s shoulders and arms were bedecked in spiked armor, but his torso was bare, proudly displaying scars won in battle. His legs were also well protected with thick armor. From a distance, he may have appeared to be made of the same stone as his statues, but the seraph knew better.

The winged creature landed ten yards in front of Basei, and turned to an iron cauldron. The seraph placed his hands over the cauldron and the same crimson mist that he had absorbed from Alfrin flowed out from him and into the cauldron. More than that, there was energy and strength from several other sacrifices that had been made earlier in that day. After it was all placed into the cauldron, the seraph bowed his head and stepped away.

Basei lurched forward, the ground shaking as he took two heavy steps toward the cauldron. His gargantuan hand reached out and picked the cauldron up by seizing the back rim. He tipped it to his mouth and drank deeply of the harvested strength and energy. A fiery glow enveloped the god of battle and Basei set the empty cauldron down with a clang.

“Were there any souls worthy of the blessings they sought?” Basei asked in a low, growling voice.

The seraph shook his head. “No,” he said quickly. “Though, I heard word of battles being fought north of Kobhir. Perhaps there you will find some sport.”

Basei let out a pleased hum that sounded like a growl in his throat. “Soldiers?” Basei asked.

The seraph bowed his head. “Some rebels, but mostly soldiers from what I heard.”

Basei turned and grabbed his massive sword. He hoisted it up over his right shoulder and then turned back to the cauldron. He extended his left hand over the empty vessel and a black mist formed within, swirling and mixing until an image appeared in the middle. Basei uttered the incantations he used to enhance his scrying tools until he found a battle that suited him.

“This one will do.”

The seraph lifted his head only enough to see the formations converging on each other in the open desert. There were perhaps two hundred soldiers from each army. They were not yet charging, but they would be soon.

“Are there any valiant followers?” the seraph asked as he stepped closer.

Basei waved his hand over the image once more. As he did so, a crimson glow emanated from each of the four hundred souls about to fight. “Some are stronger than others, but there are no champions of Basei in this group,” Basei said with a disgusted snarl.

Several pockets of yellow and gold dotted the crimson sea as they inspected closer.

“Followers of the Old Gods,” the seraph noted.

Basei let out a displeasured snarl. “They will die first. Then, I will sate my blade upon the lesser souls.”

At that moment, another seraph flew in and landed near them.

This one also had wings of fire, but the flames were blue.

Basei turned to address the newcomer. “I am preparing for battle. Do you have anything I must see first?”

The new seraph rose up and nodded grimly. “A battalion of orcs are marching upon your shrine in Hamathea. The priests stand ready to fight, but I came to offer you the chance of answering the offense personally.”

“Orcs…” Basei left his cauldron and placed his sword down in front of him so that his hands rested upon the thick hilt. “How many?”

“A group of three hundred. One hundred orc knights, and two hundred footmen.”

Basei nodded. “Hamathea has always been a productive shrine. The offerings have been steady, and often times worthy of my attention. Besides, the orcs will provide better sport than the human battle I was going to visit. Tell my priests in Hamathea to stand outside the shrine. Let them witness their god in all of his glory as he wipes the foul orcs from the plane of the living.”

The seraph bowed his head. “As you command.” His great, blue wings of fire flapped mightily, throwing the seraph into the air and sending him shooting back toward where he came from.

Basei turned to the first seraph. “Perhaps I will visit these battles north of Kobhir at another time. Return to my High Temple. Gather more sacrifices. I will see you tomorrow.”

The seraph bowed his head and flew back through the astral plane toward the High Temple.