Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) Page 12

  “I found you wounded from a battle with a terrible beast. You were not far from here so I carried you home. It’s probably just as well that you forget, the wounds were grievous.”

  Was she lying? He looked her up and down. She didn’t look like she could carry him anywhere. Where did she get the strength?

  She smiled. “I think you’re ready. Tonight will be your first, I think.”

  “My first what?”

  “You'll see,” and she laughed, light and airy.

  Gant followed her up the spiral staircase that wrapped around the massive oak into her treetop mansion. The floors were masses of intertwined branches. The leaves formed an impenetrable roof over their heads, and the walls were huge limbs that grew thicker than a man’s chest. Gant noticed that the tree seemed to reposition its branches to suit Dalphnia. On hot nights, the branches unmeshed, allowing the cool night breeze to skip through and sweep away the pent-up heat. On blustery days, the branches tightened their maze to block out the tiniest draft. It was the most comfortable dwelling Gant had ever seen. He liked it here.

  Once they reached the main room, Gant sat on a comfortable chair formed by two great limbs. “What’s so special about tonight?”

  Dalphnia turned from a storage sack made of dried leaves sewn together. “First, we eat. You’ll need your strength. We’ll watch the sunset together.”

  Gant looked to the west. The branches had parted to form a window through which he saw the huge orange ball sliding toward the horizon. Its fading rays painted the sky and treetops a glorious gold. It was a magnificent view.

  Dalphnia brought a wooden platter loaded with fruits, nuts and golden grains. She sat next to Gant, so close their knees rubbed lightly. Gant felt the surging desire building again.

  She leaned closer, lightly pressing a smooth purple grape to his lips. He took it, chewed it, savored the juice. Dutifully she fed him, satisfying his hunger. As he ate, the sun fell behind the distant treetops and darkness came. The branches gently closed the window. She turned aside and placed the tray on the floor. When she turned back, it was her lips she offered and Gant tasted them; tasted a new kind of sweetness that he thought would consume him. She broke off the kiss, took Gant’s hand and led him up to her bedroom. Fireflies danced above them, giving them only enough light to appreciate each other.

  #

  Gant woke refreshed. He felt warm, his muscles strong and renewed. He couldn’t remember ever sleeping that well. Then again, he couldn’t remember much. His nerves pulsated with warm memories of the night before. Gant had never known the pleasure brought by the fusion of two people. He felt more whole than he imagined possible. Dalphnia had been gentle and patient with his naiveté. She coaxed him, teased him, caressed him, and all the while her musical laughter urged him on. Her deep throaty breathing brought them both to the final burst of delight.

  He dozed for a time, woke up, stretched and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. Scanning the bedroom he concluded that she was gone. He was still amazed at how sparsely the room was furnished. The tree probably provided what she needed, he thought. Slowly he got up, reluctant to leave their love nest. He rolled out of bed and went to the limb where his breeches hung. Leisurely, he pulled them on and then arranged his tunic.

  On his way out of the bedroom, he noticed a tiny room tucked away on the left. Curious, Gant peeked inside. Hanging from a branch was an expertly crafted suit of armor. Next to the armor hung a belt, scabbard, and sword. Something about the armor and sword tugged at Gant’s subconscious. He paused a moment to study them, to admire the superb craftsmanship. Whose were they? Maybe she was married. Or had been. Gant felt pangs of jealousy. Who was he? Was Gant the fool? He dashed from the room, down the stairs. He would demand answers.

  He found her tending her flowers, happily caressing the delicate petals. A glow pervaded the garden and an aura surrounded her. Warm sunlight threw rivers of highlights off the wisps of her hair drifting in the light breeze.

  She turned to look at Gant. Her smile softened his anger.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I thought you were going to sleep all day.”

  Gant almost smiled, but he couldn’t put the thought of the other man out of his mind. “Whose armor?”

  She stiffened. Her eyes gave away her uncertainty. Something cold passed between them and for a moment the harmony broke. But only for a split second. In that split second Gant was awash in a flood of memories, his memories. For an instant he knew who he was. And then the Dalphnia’s harmonious charm swept over him again and his past vanished.

  Dalphnia smiled a sad smile. “It is yours,” she said kissing him lightly on the cheek. “I told you, I found you wounded wearing that armor. The sword was still in the lair, but I retrieved it. At first I thought you were dead.” She stopped for a moment, her eyes looking somewhere far away. Her smile brightened and she laughed like dainty bells chiming a beautiful melody. “But you healed quickly, and strangely, so did the armor. You are a marvelous man, Gant.”

  She hugged him and kissed him again, this time on the forehead.

  “But I don't remember being a warrior.” As he said it glimpses of his memory flickered through his mind, but they were too faint, as if veiled behind a curtain and he let them slip away.

  “It doesn't matter now,” said Dalphnia, “we have each other.”

  She squeezed Gant so tight he thought she would never let go. Maybe she was afraid to let go, he thought, and hugged her back.

  Holding her he wondered why he had doubted her? She had saved his life. She was beautiful, loving, and kind. He would think twice before he accused her again. He shouldn’t have been prying anyway. “Sorry,” was all he could say. He let go of her, turned and mounted the stairs.

  She watched him go for a long moment before returning to her flowers. There would be many more warm nights.

  Chapter 21

  Snow swirled around the castle. Winter held on with a vengeance. Waiting for the Night of Darkness, Barlon harangued his captains on the glorious war they would wage. Silently, sullenly, they endured, waiting for action. Barlon, too, longed for battle, longed to see his enemies cringe before him and beg for mercy. Mercy he would never give. Only seeing them dead would satisfy his lust for revenge.

  Finally, the Night of Darkness arrived. Barlon sat alone in the war room patiently waiting for his wizard.

  The door opened and Razgoth slipped quietly into the room. “Sire,” he said, “all is ready. After I form the portal to the Dark Realms, you must wield the amulet when Varg comes through.”

  “Good,” replied Barlon, leaping from his chair. “I am anxious to meet my new ally.”

  Razgoth shook his head. “Do you realize the dangers? Demons are not want to serve man no matter how strong the magic that binds them. They pleasure only in suffering and pain.”

  “Then he'll enjoy his work.” With that Barlon brushed past Razgoth and hurried down the gloomy hallways to Razgoth's workroom.

  The wizard's chamber was deep in the bowels of the castle near the dungeons where Uric was held captive. As Barlon entered, having passed the bevy of guards and iron strapped doors, his eyes protested the smoky darkness. Scant light came from iron braziers full of glowing coals set regularly around a great magic circle drawn on the floor. Smokey candles sat in groups of nine at each corner of the room and on short, small tables placed at the midpoint of each wall. Their flames gave off more smoke than light. An acrid mist filled the room like wind-blown grit. It burned the nose and the back of the throat. Barlon forced himself inside and fought down a cough.

  Razgoth entered beside him, surprisingly immune to the pungent cloud. “It is important to do exactly as I instruct.”

  Barlon looked reproachfully at his wizard. He hated being given orders. This time he excused Razgoth’s rudeness. “Of course, I'm not stupid.”

  “You must stand exactly here.” Razgoth gently moved Barlon into a small purple triangle that was drawn on the floor only inches from
the great circle. Once inside, Barlon felt powerful magic vibrate through his boots.

  “Do not move from this spot until I tell you to, no matter what you see or hear. When I nod, hold up the amulet so the demon can see it. I'll do the rest.”

  “Why all the warnings? Can't you make the demon respond?”

  “No. I can produce the portal between dimensions and summon Varg to that opening but I cannot make him come over to our world. He must be lured here. My magic has no power in the realms of darkness. I only open the way. Once he steps through to our plane the spell will be completed and you will hold power over him.”

  Razgoth turned away from Barlon and walked around the great circle to a place directly opposite the Mountain Lord. The middle-aged necromancer weaved his spell, intricate hand motions and tracings in the air with his nimble fingers coupled with arcane chants. Lastly, he cast a dark powder into the middle of the great circle.

  Slowly a deeper blackness grew in the smoky grayness at the center of the room. The darkness swelled, gaining size and shape until it became an opening into a hellish world. Flashes of red leapt from the void. A low wailing filtered into the room followed by a piercing shriek. Varg stood in the portal, broader and taller than a man and ugly as death. His skin was black, the total absence of light, his ears flared up away from his hard features like miniature charcoal wings. His red eyes flashed a blazing hatred.

  “Who calls me to the world of my children?” His tone carried a false sweetness with an undercurrent of menace.

  “I, Razgoth.” The wizard raised both arms, muttered words of power known to few on Earth. “I have need of your power and you shall share the fruits of that power.” More finger motions and an unintelligible arcane word.

  “I see your power, wizard, but you interest me little.”

  “I will help you break the spell that keeps you from this world.”

  Varg turned his head, first to one side, then the other. Something stopped him before he could turn far enough to see Barlon Gorth. “And if I come, what will you do with me once I have completed your task?”

  “You are free, of course.”

  “Name your task.”

  “The fall of the Western Kings.”

  Varg pondered, immobile. Then his body solidified, appearing like wrought iron. The portal closed silently behind him.

  “Let's go. The Kings fall before the sun sets.”

  “No. We go with my Lord.”

  Razgoth nodded toward Barlon who gripped the medallion hanging around his neck and raised it to head level. He held it there waiting for the demon's eyes to fall on it.

  Slowly, as if aware of someone else in the room for the first time, Varg turned toward the Mountain King. His sight swept around the circle until it reached the pulsating amulet. A flash of light flared as the demon's eyes came to rest on the magically wrought gold and jewels. The sparkle left Varg’s eyes transferred to the image within the medallion. The demon’s eyes became dull red and the tiny eyes of the likeness within the interwoven strands of gold flashed as if alive.

  “He is yours to command,” said Razgoth, dropping his arms. “Be careful what you say. He may interpret your words too literally.”

  “Fine. Will he stay somewhere until morning? I want to brief my commanders and then we'll need to know exactly what he can do for us.”

  “He'll do whatever you tell him, short of committing suicide.”

  “Go with Razgoth. He’ll show you to your quarters. Stay there until we come to get you in the morning. Razgoth, take him to his chambers, then meet me in the war room.”

  “As you wish.”

  Varg trooped out on Razgoth’s heels his face emotionless. Razgoth looked drawn and pale. Barlon Gorth smiled, satisfied with his plan’s progress. It was going to take a while to figure out how best to use Varg but they had time. The snows would be gone soon and they would attack the West on the heels of the thaw. The first few skirmishes as they moved into the middle Western Kingdom of Chadmir would likely be only with border guards. Those could be overwhelmed by the Knights of Habichon while Barlon experimented with the demon’s powers. It would not be long, and with Sir Jarlz enchanted to believe that Barlon was his liege the greatest living knight had taken one of the empty suits of purple armor. With all that in his favor, Barlon felt invincible.

  Chapter 22

  West of the Monolith Mountains were the three Western Kingdoms. The northern most was Scaltzland, a kingdom of warriors and warrior priests who lived in the great forests and mountains, hunting, fishing, battling the northern hordes, and mining and smelting ores.

  To the south lay the farming kingdom of Dernium. It was a bountiful land of sunshine, fresh water and fertile soil. Hardworking farmers tilled vast fields that produced vegetables and grains. They herded cattle, sheep and goats. They were good at what they did, but they weren’t soldiers.

  Between these two kingdoms and on a direct line with the Great East-West road was Chadmir, a kingdom of merchants and traders who lived off the commerce that came through their lands.

  With Barlon Gorth’s conquest of Netherdorf, the three kings hurriedly arranged a meeting. As usual, the northern and southern kings traveled to Pogor, the capitol city of Chadmir. They met in the sandstone castle’s light, airy council hall that towered over the thriving business district. Large windows opened to fresh spring breezes that whipped the countless colorful flags, pennants and banners marking the multitude of tents and shops in the streets below. Three chairs were arranged around an oblong table in the room’s center.

  King Petre of the nothern Kingdom of Scaltzland sat closest to the door. He was tall and muscular, his body honed by life spent as a warrior. He ruled over a populace of warriors and hunters. He arrived that day with a troop of his personal guard.

  Seated mid-table was King Daggon from the southern farmlands of Dernium. He was a blocky man who tilled fields along with his people. He also brought a contingent of guards.

  As host, King Fasoom sat at the head of the conference table. He was rotund with a disarmingly pleasant smile that hid a tough attitude for business.

  “I say we teach this upstart a lesson,” said Petre, scowling. He stretched his lean frame, slouching in his chair.

  “You're always ready to fight,” said Daggon, whose bulk hardly fit his ornately carved chair. “He’s got what he wants.”

  “I'm not so sure,” said Fasoom. “And there are problems other than with what he wants. Barlon Gorth now controls the only trade route between us and the Eastern Empire. Tariffs could become a problem, and even if not, trade will suffer if he doesn't keep the roads open. Perhaps Petre is right.”

  King Daggon scowled. “Trade, war, what talk is this? Peace is what we need, peace to grow our crops, peace for you to handle your trade and you to mine your metals. Peace is what I've sought, in our names.”

  Daggon pulled out a leather tube, uncapped it and withdrew a rolled sheet of vellum. He unrolled it and ceremoniously laid it on the table.

  “Daggon, where did you get this?” asked Petre, craning his neck to get a good view of the document.

  “An emissary of Lord Gorth, Shalmuthe, brought it in hopes we could strike a peace treaty before anyone did something rash. You see, this pact guarantees peace and is already signed by myself and Barlon Gorth. It has ample provisions for your signatures. Sign it. It guarantees peace for all. And, you’ll note, it includes mutual defense provisions should the Northern Hordes attack us again.”

  “I don't know,” said Fasoom, taking up the thin document in his chubby hands. “I'll have to read this carefully, have my advisors study it.”

  “Take your time.”

  Petre's frown deepened. “If Barlon is content with his little conquest, why didn't he set himself up as king in Netherdorf instead of that old soldier? What is Barlon saving for himself'?”

  “He doesn't want power. He just needed the croplands to feed his people.”

  “Yes, you know about crops, Daggon. You and th
e people of Dernium are great farmers, but you know nothing of men. Barlon Gorth is not done. We should crush him now and restore King Tirmus to the throne in Netherdorf. Tirmus is an honest man.”

  The wiry leader of the northern kingdom locked eyes with the broad shouldered farmer. Each glared at the other stubbornly refusing to be the first to look away.

  “I think we should wait a few days until I can dissect this treaty,” said Fasoom. “Wars are costly. Inaction can cost more. Let us feast and enjoy each other's company for two days. On the third, we shall meet and discuss this until we reach a decision.”

  Petre nodded. “I can't go to war by myself.”

  “And I can't have peace if you do not,” said Daggon.

  “Done.” said King Fasoom. He waved his hand for food, and the many rings on his hand flashed like twinkling stars.

  #

  On the third day, King Petre of Scaltzland paced the Council Hall impatiently. He was a head taller than most men but his lack of bulk belied an amazing strength and quickness. He was in extraordinary shape for one who did most of his work seated on a throne. He had renounced the easy life. He seldom over-ate and never drank to excess. Daily he honed his skill with arms, testing himself against his captains and officers. He took seriously his royal position as commander of the Scaltzlandian army. Often he led companies against the northern barbarians. Few knew the sword at his side still held a touch of ancient magic. He preferred to let his men think it was his skill that felled the enemy. Today he chafed at the tardiness of his fellow Kings. He had barely endured the wait imposed by King Fasoom while his advisors evaluated Gorth’s treaty. As far as Petre was concerned, war was the only logical answer. Daggon was always slow to see the danger. His people were happy tilling their fields and milking their cows. Worse, they thought everyone else should be happy doing the same. Fasoom, on the other hand, was more pragmatic. His prosperity depended on trade and therefore he better understood relations between nations. Surely, he would not be fooled by Gorth’s maneuver.