The Flight of the Griffin (36 page)
Read The Flight of the Griffin Online
Authors: C.M. Gray
‘Then what are you doing here, boy?’ The demon’s tone was mocking.
‘Sometimes it is more important to make a stand against evil, than to worry about beating it, that’s all that matters to the Source. I’m
trying
to stop you, because you need to be stopped, and in doing so, I’m going to restore the balance.’ He circled the demon, spinning the blade, his confidence returned. ‘You would have us believe that the only way to beat you, is to become like you, but that isn’t true. It only matters that I give my best, the Source sees to all else. It’s not victory we seek but balance.’
‘You speak in riddles, boy priest, am I meant to understand your babbling?’ The demon wiped blood from his brow and for the first time Tarent recognised the first signs of doubt in his opponent.
‘Your understanding isn’t important, demon. You could never hope to come close to understanding.’ He smiled, feeling the peace of the Source infuse him.
With a snarl, Belial launched himself at Tarent, confused and goaded into an angry attack. Their swords clashed and rang time and again as they circled, each seeking to break the other’s defences.
Seeing an opening, Tarent feinted to his left and with a flick of his wrist at the last moment, pulled the blade back to his right; Belial blocked the move but the demon showed a new respect for his smaller opponent. Side-stepping, Belial pushed the sword clear and sent a vicious backhanded strike to Tarent’s face. The Source priest jumped back, almost avoiding the strike, but the demon’s blade drew a line of blood across his forehead and the Taint of Chaos burnt into the wound. Concentrating his power of healing as best he could, Tarent lifted his free hand and felt the blood sticky between his fingers. The demon smiled.
‘You’re too frail, little human, you all break too easily and have never really stood a chance against us, mankind never has and my demon army shall soon be feasting upon you all.’
Tarent returned the smile. ‘The Source will always find a way to stop you demon, and someone like me will always be there to do its work.’ As he spoke Tarent’s blade snaked through the demon’s guard and found Belial’s one good eye. The demon screamed, dropped the sword, and brought both hands up to his face, a moan of pain and anguish echoing through the still temple air. Tarent swayed uncertainly.
‘Finish it!’
screamed Pardigan.
‘I…He’s unarmed, I…I can’t...I...’ Tarent dropped his sword and stepped back, a look of horror on his face. ‘The Source doesn’t seek victory, it seeks balance.’
Lunging forward the blind demon grabbed Tarent and drawing him into a fatal embrace, pulled out a knife and held it to Tarent’s throat. His scream of triumph echoed around the temple.
Terror filled the Source priest, his emotions and beliefs at war as he struggled vainly in the demon’s grip.
Then, from far away, a calm soft voice parted the curtains of his mind.
‘This is the time of your choice, Priest of the Source. It is a choice for your Quest, but also a choice for your soul. You must now choose to believe in your path … or not. Surrender to the Source and we shall find the balance, remember, it is not a victory that shall win the day. We seek…to find…the balance. Place courage in your convictions and...let…go…’
A wash of calm infused Tarent as he released his fear, lifted his head to expose his throat, and spread his arms to either side. A look of confusion then anger played across the blinded demon’s ghastly face as with a cry, he lifted the blade then plunged it down.
‘Noooooooooo…’ the cry echoed throughout the
Temple as the rest of the crew dashed in.
The moment they did, unseen by any of them, an old man in brown robes walked up to the altar and slipped a second knife into the empty slot at the moment Belial’s blade also sank home. There was a hideous smile of triumph on the demon's blood-soaked face, then he disappeared with a pop, the blade falling with a clatter to the temple floor alongside Tarent.
‘What happened?’ asked Pardigan, running forward to catch his friend. The others gathered around.
‘We have another visitor,’ whispered Loras and the whole group spun to see who he was staring at.
The frail figure in the brown robes stood still beside the circle of glowing blue skulls.
‘The second knife!’ exclaimed Loras.
‘Who are you?’ asked Mahra walking forward…then she slowed as recognition dawned upon her. ‘Magician Pew...Father?’
****
Chapter 23
Fishing
The sun continued to beat down.
The
Griffin
was lying at anchor just off the coast of Minster Island above a reef of teeming fish. They’d been here for two days now, fishing and lazing about, enjoying the fact that they had no place special to go and all the time in the world to fish in. Mahra was becoming the best and most dedicated fisherman of the group, squealing in constant delight as she watched the schools of fish swimming around her hook. Her fast reflexes often meant that she snagged a fish that was swimming past and hadn’t even noticed her bait. The others were happy to simply lay back and wait for the bell on the end of the fishing rod to ring, announcing a moment of activity and another fat fish.
Magician Pew had joined them, explaining that Belial had disappeared as the balance was restored and that the heat would slowly pass, returning the lands to the normal succession of seasons. The great spell had been completed and the hold that Chaos had upon both the world, and on the minds of man, would slowly lessen. Chaos wasn’t gone, it simply hadn’t triumphed as it had expected to; that was what Tarent had accomplished with his act of selfless sacrifice. He had not sought to claim victory for Order, but found a way to gain the balance.
‘And it didn’t kill me,’ said Tarent smiling.
‘No, it didn’t kill you. That I think would have been asking a little too much.’
Nobody had seen Bartholomew Bask since the battle, but the
Esmerelda
his ship, was long gone by the time the crew, along with Matheus Hawk had returned. Matheus had slunk off disappearing into the streets of Sterling vowing that he would find them again and one day, claim what was rightfully his. He was in shock from his recent ordeals and with the power of Chaos gone, was feeling the change more than anyone.
‘I’ve got another,’ squealed Mahra, pulling a fat wriggling fish onto the deck. Loras was watching Magician Pew as he sat happily at her side, suspecting the magician of somehow getting the fish onto his daughter’s hook but as yet unsure how. Loras followed the great magician around everywhere, and always had thousands of questions for the old man, but he also respected the new-found relationship between the magician and his daughter and allowed them time together as best he could.
Mahra had almost fainted at the sight of the magician back in the temple as her full memory came back with a mighty jolt that had rocked her. Memories were regained of what they had planned and accomplished together so many years before and the necessary decisions that had robbed them of much of their time together as father and daughter.
They spent several days fishing at Minster, their nights filled with stories, all of them true as they told each other of their parts in the adventure. They sat on the deck eating fish and sleeping under the stars, happy that they’d finally completed the Quest and discussing what would happen next.
On the last evening before leaving, as the crew slept, Mahra and her father sat on deck talking as they had done on several other evenings recently. This time when there was finally no more to say except goodbye, Magician Pew slowly disappeared, a smile on his face and a tear in his eye as he held his daughter’s hand for the very last time. His final words as his body faded away were to wish her a long and happy life and of course many, many fish.
The End
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Also by C.M.Gray:
…
- Prologue -
For more than one year, the faithful had been making the pilgrimage to the coastal city of Sterling Port. Leaving their homes and villages as the incredible stories reached them; they walked for days or often weeks from the furthest corners of the Realm. Flocking in their thousands, they filled the Inns and taverns to bursting and helped to line the pockets of every merchant in the city. They travelled far and endured hardship just so that they could pay homage and see the truth of the miracle that had taken place in the Source Temple that overlooked the city of Sterling Port.
When at last they reached the end of their journey, climbed the hill and entered the temple’s cool environs, these pilgrims stood and stared in awe at the three glowing skulls that one year ago had quite miraculously appeared upon the altar. ‘Brought as a gift from the Source itself,’ or so the priest assured the listening crowds. Delivered by a group of warrior angels who had fought with the demon lord of Chaos himself as the skulls had been set in place. The priest, delighted at the temple’s growing prominence, claimed to have witnessed the whole thing.
The warm summer months passed, followed by the most glorious of autumns and an abundant harvest for all regions of the Realm. Now, however, the weather was changing once again. The steady lines of patiently waiting pilgrims dwindled daily as the cold of winter placed its first frosty grip on the Kingdom for many years. At least, reasoned the priest, some degree of normality was able to return to the temple at last and services could be held without the constant interruption from bands of faithful travellers arriving, each one eager for a glimpse of the miracle.
Those pilgrims that did still make it to the altar in Sterling Temple prayed to the Source for their friends and families as all had done before, but now they could also be heard praying for their Kingdom as it once again made ready for war.
Far to the North, the Realm’s traditional enemy were massing once again; the Barbarian hordes led by the Warrior Queen, Morgasta. And if the Barbarians were not enough, the winter winds were bringing rumours of a new enemy threatening the Realm from across ‘The Great Expanse,’ the sea of sand to the West of the Kingdom. The future was an uncertain one and pilgrims would often remark that only time and true faith would tell. However, it was a time and faith that would be tested far sooner than most were want to believe, for when the first act of that testing did arrive, it came late on the eve of the winter solstice, on a particularly unwelcoming night.
The priest was tired after another busy day of serving the Source, and as he left that evening, turning the key in the temple door, his hands were numb from the cold. Replacing the key in his robes, he shuffled out, his mind already on other much warmer distractions. After a quick blessing to the two guards stationed outside the main door, he pulled his cloak about him and hurried off into the rainy night to find his fire, a late supper, and possibly a glass or two of warm spiced wine.
The guards stamped their feet and watched the skinny cleric leave. It was too cold and wet to stand outside, so with a quick glance around to check if they were being observed they headed into the small wooden guardroom in order to play a game of old jack bones and drink something warming around their own small fire.
Unbeknownst to the careless guards or tired priest, it happened that on this particular inhospitable night, two thieves were approaching the temple, heads bowed and backs hunched against the wind and rain. They held little fear for the guards, in fact, the taller of the two appeared somewhat disappointed to find the doorway abandoned. He cast a craving look towards the guardroom, and then at his companion, who simply shook his head.
‘Just open the door and let’s get this done,’ grumbled the shorter figure. ‘I’m freezing me damn bits off standing out here while yeh look fer trouble.’ He pushed his companion towards the door but then hastily held his hands up in apology as the taller man swung violently towards him. ‘Please… let’s just get this done. Then you can play with them… after. Me word on it… all right?’
The tall man regarded him, the red glow from his eyes casting their own dim light within the hood of his cloak. ‘Just be careful I don’t start playing with you… or freezing your bits off will sound like a gift from the Source itself.’ The small black demon perching upon his shoulder bared its teeth and hissed its own warning. Turning back to the door, the tall thief held a claw-like hand over the lock mechanism and it glowed blood red before the bolt slid back with a loud clunk that echoed back throughout the temple. Hinges creaking, the door swung open releasing a waft of incense and devotion out into the cold, wet night.
Watching his stout accomplice waddle past, his heavy footfalls echoing in the darkness, he vowed for the umpteenth time that he would kill him soon and go on with their plans alone. Stepping forward, he was heedless of the temple carvings and pious majesty that was normally the first thing to capture the attention of the devout, and felt his irritation melt away as his gaze was drawn towards the far end of the temple and the three miraculous skulls with their soft blue glow bathing the altar.
As the sound of lumbering footfalls stopped, the tall thief watched as, without any thought to the consequences, the pudgy hands of Bartholomew Bask reached up onto the altar and lifted the closest of the skulls from its place, pulling it closely to his chest. The skull briefly illuminated the merchant’s grinning face before its blue light slowly ebbed, the magic broken as it became separated from its fellows. Quickly placing two of the skulls in a sack, Bartholomew held out the third towards Matheus Hawk, his smile of triumph slowly fading.
The hunter, feeling strangely cautious, took it tentatively. It felt cold and foreign, and he fought the urge to turn away and vomit. He quickly passed the skull back.
‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing there? Hold still…’ the guards, finally deciding to look out of their cosy guardroom had found the temple doors open. Hastily buckled armour clashed and banged as they loped down the aisle, clumsily drawing their swords as they came. The tall hunter slowly turned towards them, an awful grin on his face as he raised his arms to either side, palms up and fingers curling. Red lightning crackled from his fingertips as his hands turned towards them and then struck out to hit each guard in mid stride with a sickly punch that knocked them from their feet and drove the air from their bodies. Yet they did not fall to the floor. Backs arching, they writhed in agony and rose into the air, screaming out in pain as their swords fell to the tiles with a clatter. The crackling energy was lifting them up towards the painted ceiling high above.
By the time they reached the apex of their journey, they were dead, their spirits already departed as their lifeless bodies were finally released, falling with two dull thuds to the stone flagging of the temple floor.
A colossal clap of thunder broke the deathly silence that followed. It was accompanied by a brilliant flash of flickering lightning that revealed the broken bodies of the guards, their sightless eyes staring in accusation towards the two thieves.
Bartholomew hugged the skulls to him and looked aghast at the Hawk. ‘Do you still have the dreams?’ His voice was little more than a hushed whisper as the tall hunter held out his hands to reclaim the third skull.
‘The dreams? Yes, I still have the dreams… they never leave me, they are my constant companions... along with Nhasic here.’ He reached up and pulled spitefully on the little demon’s ear making it hiss.
‘The Griffin
and its young crew will suffer Mr. Bask. I care little for their… talents. I have studied much and learnt well these past months. I am now truly Matheus Hawk, The Hunter. My powers have gone far beyond anything I had ever thought to be possible. Yes, I still have my nightmares Mr. Bask, but I also have my dreams, dreams of revenge, revenge and a chance to bring a little closer a time of suffering for the crew of
The Griffin.
’
The two thieves made their way out of the temple and down through the city towards the ship anchored in the harbour. The tall thief marched ahead as his shorter round companion tried to keep up, hampered by the large sack that swung from side to side over his somewhat ample shoulders. Behind them, the temple stood cold and alone - rain blew in through its open doors, the interior empty and bereft of its spirit once more started to get even colder.
The door was left banging on its hinges as the storm intensified, becoming far worse than anything predicted by the locals in Sterling Port’s many taverns. For now was the start of a new storm, a chaos storm.
****
