Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) Page 14

  The soldier left.

  “Let's find suitable quarters,” said Barlon, returning his attention to General Ecker and the rest of his command staff.

  It wasn't long before Ecker, Razgoth, Barlon and Lom were installed in the best of the Spartan quarters inside the main stronghold. Barlon’s cooking staff went to work preparing a fine meal from the fort’s provisions. Lom posted his men atop the walls and Sir Jarlz was placed in command of the watch. The rest of the troops camped on the plain around Fort Bal and the drunken revelry began almost as soon as the mead, ale and wine casks could be located.

  Barlon was in an outstanding mood, joking and laughing with his men at the great table in the main dining hall. He ate his fill, mentioned an early morning staff meeting and retired for the evening, hinting he was not to be disturbed.

  Before long the others drifted off and only Razgoth and General Ecker sat sipping their drinks.

  “I don't like it,” said the General, his hair flashing silver in the firelight. “Barlon takes this war too lightly. We have defeated only a tiny outpost and that full of Chadmirians. Wait until we face their combined armies, especially the battle-hardened legions of Scaltzland.”

  “Our Lord trusts too much in Varg’s power,” said Razgoth. Tonight the mage looked older than his years. Though barely into his forties, Razgoth looked ancient. His sandy hair was in disarray and his boney fingers trembled slightly as he held his wine glass.

  “Varg is powerful, I’ll vouch for that. The Chadmirian blades couldn't scratch his hide. And he certainly made short work of them, even those with armor.”

  “Varg is deadly,” agreed the wizard. “But his power will as likely be against us as with us. Demons have little use for worldly goals. I fear our Lord may yet overplay his hand.”

  “We still have the Knights of Habichon. They have magic in their swords. They'll side with us if the time comes.”

  “Magic? Yes, a black and evil power. Have you noticed how their eyes turn deathly white if they wear the armor too long? More likely they would side with Varg if it came to it. If you remember, Habichon's knights turned on him when they went to the realms of darkness. The evil in that armor subverts them until they are loyal only to evil. I hope we don't have to find out.”

  “Speaking of that cursed demon, where is Varg? He hasn't been here all night. Usually, he won't leave Barlon's side.”

  “I'm not sure,” confided the mage, “but I think our Lord has granted the demon use of the prisoners.”

  The general’s expression showed his surprise and shock. Razgoth was correct. Screams, shrieks and wails from the cells persisted through the night. The bulk of Barlon’s troops were past caring, drunk beyond comprehension, but those who remained awake that night were frozen with terror by morning. Even Lom’s troops, who stood atop the walls, were touched by the rising horror though their tainted souls were beyond fear. Unlike the others, the knights of Habichon seemed to gain an eerie strength from the sounds of the dying.

  As the camp began to stir the next morning, whispered rumors filtered through the ranks spread by those who remembered. Fear tainted every man’s eye, and shadows darkened every mortal heart. All that is except two. Sir Jarlz was unmoved, his mind not his own, and Barlon saw only his victory, his mind burning with thoughts of revenge and conquest.

  Chapter 24

  In Pogor, capital city of Chadmir, King Fasoom received a battered and wounded visitor. She was petite and slender with close-cropped hair and great, round, brown eyes that seemed to see more than they should. She wore an ankle length gown of white muslin. Beneath it, a bandage was wrapped around the arrow wound to her right thigh. Another wrapping bound her left shoulder. As she entered King Fasoom’s private chamber, she winced with each step, but her head remained high, her chin thrust out, her bearing proud and fierce.

  “Amelia, what happened to you?” asked Fasoom with genuine concern. The chubby monarch motioned her closer.

  “Barlon Gorth has taken Fort Bal. I am the only one who escaped.”

  “How? How so quickly?”

  “A demon, a horrible beast that kills and cannot be killed, and the Knights of Habichon. We fought well, but Barlon has powers we cannot fight. I flew here as fast as I could.”

  “Damn, Petre was right,” said the king with a scowl. “This treachery will not go unchecked. Rest for now. We will soon need you to watch Barlon’s movements. In the meantime, I will inform Daggon and Petre. In a few days you'll be mended.”

  The king shook his head dismissing the girl. As she turned to go she heard Fasoom say to himself, “We get war even as we pray for peace, and Petre will tell us he told us so. What does Barlon Gorth hope to gain?”

  Amelia left the king's chamber and limped to her quarters on the second floor. She ate sparingly from the food brought to her, and then slept from exhaustion.

  When she woke, it was night. She felt better, but her shoulder and thigh were stiff and sore. She ate again, slowly. After she finished, she walked to the window, opened it and looked out. The smaller moon was only a thin sliver hanging low near the horizon. The larger moon was higher in the sky, but it too was only a thin crescent. Gently, so as not to hurt her shoulder, she dropped her gown and stood naked in the window for a moment contemplating the task she knew was ahead. And then resolved to go through with it, she whispered one of the spells that her grandfather had taught her. When she’d first learned them, it had been hard to stay focused and get the spell just right. After so many repetitions, she could cast either one, one for day, one for night, unconsciously. Now, her body took on a translucence, shimmering and transparent. Her limbs became great wings covered with powerful flight feathers and her body transformed into a great owl. She tested her wings against the cool night air. Satisfied, she picked up her gown in one talon, and then swooped off into the darkness.

  She flew east along the road until she came to Fort Bal. Campfires dotted the terrain around the fort. Barlon’s troops had not moved and didn’t look ready to do so soon. She circled the sleeping army on silent wings, counting the tents, noting the numbers of supply wagons. And then she turned and flew off to the northeast.

  She climbed steadily over the Monolith Mountains, crossing them near Barlon’s mountain castle. Onward she flew making the best speed she could. Dawn brought daylight that bothered her eyes and she settled in a tall tree. Her shoulder ached, but she dare not rest. She whispered the words of the day spell and with a shudder of feathers, she changed into a large eagle. As always, she tested her new wings before she leaped into the air and flew off again, always northeast.

  Now she could fly faster and at higher altitude. She climbed and sped on. The ground passed below and it wasn’t long before she glided in to land before a stout log cabin ringed by tall pines. In a blink she was again Amelia. She pulled on the white thigh-length gown she’d carried with her, the soft white cloth covering her wounds.

  “Grandfather,” she called to the house from outside the ring of pine trees.

  Abadis’ face beamed from the window nearest the door. “Amelia,” he answered, “come in, come in.”

  He rushed outside, waving her in, bubbling with laughter. “It’s so good to see you. How is my favorite granddaughter? I wish I’d known, I could have had something ready to eat.”

  He threw his arms around her and hugged her. She winced, but it went unnoticed. Then he pushed her into the house still babbling his welcome.

  He didn’t stop until she was seated with a warm glass of his healing elixir. Finally he stopped talking and looked closely at her, his face turning grim.

  “What's wrong?”

  “I came to ask for help. King Fasoom is in deep trouble. Maybe worse than he’ll admit.”

  “You're still working for that over-rich snob?”

  “Yes, Grandpa. He’s honest and he loves birds.”

  “Honest? I never met an honest merchant, king or commoner. Nevertheless, you didn’t come all this way to hear an old man complain about m
erchants and their merchandise.”

  “No, I didn’t. Barlon Gorth has taken Fort Bal. I’m sure he’ll attack Pogor next. Fasoom thinks he can rally Petre and Daggon. He thinks their armies can defeat Gorth. Grandpa, they won’t.”

  “Oh, come child. Barlon Gorth is hardly capable of raising an army large enough to threaten the Western Kings. I’m surprised he could muster enough force to take Fort Bal.”

  “You’d be right if it were a simple matter of numbers. Barlon can’t have more than three thousand men. It’s the demon. I saw him. I saw him laugh at sword strokes that would kill any man. And Gorth has recruited the Knights of Habichon.”

  “Hmm.” The old man sat down heavily on one of the stools. “Habichon’s evil returns to haunt us again. But a demon? What demon? Describe it.”

  “It was huge, ten feet tall at least. All black, with four arms that ended in claws and ears that swept back on the side of its head like wings.”

  The old wizard thought for several long minutes, his fingers tapping lightly on the tabletop. “I hope I’m wrong. I’ll have to consult some of my records.” He paused as if he’d thought of something else. “Probably should get in touch with Uric. The last I heard he was still with King Tirmus.”

  Amelia looked shocked. “Haven't you heard? Netherdorf fell to Barlon Gorth months ago. His General Ecker is the new king.”

  “Tirmus is dead?”

  “They say he escaped, but the rest of the castle staff was killed.”

  “Impossible!” snapped Abadis gruffly.

  “That’s what we heard at Fort Bal. Grandfather.” She looked sternly at his weathered face. “What’s wrong with you? What have you been doing? You’ve lost touch with the world.”

  “Uh, well,” a touch of color came to his checks. “I’ve been doing research.”

  “Research?”

  “Forget that. What about Sir Jarlz? Uric? Have you heard anything about them?”

  “All we heard was the castle staff was killed protecting Tirmus’ escape. If they were in Netherdorf they’re probably dead.”

  A deep sadness settled over Abadis. He conjured up warm memories of friendship.

  “Grandpa,” said Amelia softly.

  The old man looked at her, his pain changing to anger.

  “I could stay,” she said and patted his gnarled hand with her soft delicate one.

  “Surely you’ll rest a while before you return. You’ll need your strength.”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I am tired. If I can sleep a bit.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  He ushered her to his bed in the back room, kissed her lightly on the cheek and left. While she slept, he poured over three faded tomes filled with drawings, descriptions and legends of various demons, dark princes and creatures from the nether worlds. He stopped at one particular page, glaring over and over at the half page illustration.

  After a time of pacing, scratching his chin and head, Abadis went to his shelves and pulled down another large encyclopedic volume. He opened it, thumbed a few pages, read carefully, and then slumped back on his stool. Amelia found him seated there when she woke. The look on his face chased the last touch of sleep from her.

  “What is it, Grandpa?”

  “Come here, child,” he said softly. He pointed to the book open to an illustration. “Recognize this?”

  She looked at the picture. “That's it.”

  “I was afraid of it. Uric was right. The prophecy is coming true.” Abadis slammed the table with one fist. “Barlon is a madman! He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  Amelia turned the second volume around so she could read the text. It said:

  “Varg, demon prince, true name unknown. Father of the dark elves, lord of suffering and torture, magically exiled to the realms of evil by the dark elves and Bartholomew. Confined there unless recalled. Sworn to vengeance against men and dark elves. Treacherous, evil, uncontrollable. NOT TO BE CONTACTED!”

  She looked up at her grandfather. “If he was sent to the dark regions and confined there, how’d he get here?”

  “The right summoning spell could break his restrictions.”

  “But who would do such a thing?”

  “Probably that upstart, Razgoth. He’s good, but impatient and reckless. Valdor taught him for a while, but the kid was too headstrong. Valdor eventually dismissed him for disobedience.”

  “If he was dismissed, how could he summon Varg?”

  “He already knew too much. He’s not stupid, just careless. For a time he studied under the black wizardess of Lost Mountain. That he is working for Gorth is not good. Razgoth always was impressionable, taking to causes without considering the ramifications. Poor Valdor is probably beside himself. He always takes his pupils to heart, even ex-pupils.”

  “Barlon must hold some power over Varg. The thing seemed anxious enough to do his bidding.”

  “A medallion, no doubt. Perhaps the kid’s done it right. Then again, Varg may be just waiting for an opportunity to free himself.” As an afterthought he added to himself, “I can’t see how they could conjure up a magic fire strong enough to make the amulet unless Razgoth’s progressed a lot since he left Valdor.”

  “What can we do?”

  “You can go back to Fasoom. I’m not sure if we can do anything. Gant may be about to test his great-great-great grandfather’s gift.”

  “Who?”

  “Gant, Sir Jarlz’ nephew. He’s gone south chasing dragons. I need a few days of study and then I shall have to go find him. Maybe he’s still in Falls Hill.”

  “Are you going to be gone long? What if I need to contact you?”

  “Don't worry, I’ll set the shield to recognize you. Enter and write your message on the mirror.” Abadis pointed to an oblong reflecting glass on the wall half hidden behind a stack of jars, boxes and bottles. “I always carry this small mirror with me,” he said, pulling out a miniature replica of the bigger mirror. “It shows me anything written on the larger mirror no matter where I am. I’ll check for messages once a day.”

  “Okay, then I’ll be off. King Fasoom probably wonders where I've gone.” She rose and started for the door.

  “Are you sure you feel up to flying? I could take you.”

  “I’m fine Grandpa. The flight will do me good. Besides, you have more important things to do.”

  She walked down the path past the pines, waved once to Abadis, turned the corner and lost sight of the house. She pulled off her gown, cast her day spell and transformed into an eagle. She tested her wings and took off, clutching her rolled-up dress in one mighty talon.

  #

  Miles to the west, away from men and their daily travels, there were others who watched events unfold. Deep in the Caverns of Darkness, the Dark Elf Queen, Sarona, sat upon her obsidian throne, caressing the carved devil heads that formed the arm rests. Her face was delicately thin with high cheekbones and ears that swept up and back to points. She had a sinister exotic beauty that frightened both men and elves. Her thin lips were pursed, her eyes serious, hard with black pupils that were so large they left almost no white. She could see perfectly well in the dim light given off by the faint patches of glowing red rock set in the walls and ceiling. The red hue cast multiple shadows and reflected off Sarona’s dark skin, glistening from beads of nervous sweat.

  Around the perimeter of her court chamber stood guards at ramrod attention, eyes fixed straight ahead. On either side of her, elder statesmen and women awaited the arrival of the latest messenger. On the raised dais with her were the Minister of State, Minister of War, Minister of the Hunt and the High Priest. Her personal guard stood like pillars, steadfast, loyal women-warriors who ensured others maintained their distance from the Queen.

  Finally the doors at the end of the Great Cavern opened. In trotted a lean, dark elf dressed in light hunting garb with a bow slung over his shoulder. Two of the regular palace guards followed him in. The runner stopped at the foot of the five stone steps leading up to Saron
a's dais.

  “My Queen,” began the runner with a bow.

  “Yes, yes. You have word of Fort Bal?”

  “Yes, Majesty. We watched Barlon Gorth march from his mountain castle, through Chamber Pass and take Fort Bal by ruse. The Chadmirians let Barlon’s men inside and Barlon’s troops killed them all.”

  Sarona motioned her Minister of State to her side. “Didn’t our Ambassador to Dernium say they had a treaty with Gorth?”

  “Yes.”

  She waved him back and returned her attention to the messenger. “How many soldiers does Barlon command?”

  “Two thousand, three at most.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “Majesty, they were counted several times, and though strung out to give the impression of more, there are no more than three thousand.”

  “Are the purple knights with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even so, he cannot hope to win a war with the West.”

  “It is the demon, Majesty. Varg is with them.”

  “So. Our father has returned as promised to wreak his vengeance on his ‘naughty’ children. You have done well. Rest and take food before you return to your duties.”

  She waved the messenger away.

  “Get the sacred tome,” she said, staring at the High Priest. “We meet in the War Hall as soon as you can get there.”

  Suddenly the Royal Hall was a flurry of activity. The High Priest stepped off with long strides on his way to get the requested volume. The royal guards huddled around the Queen as she rose. The other ministers scurried off with the news.

  Sarona marched off surrounded by her personal guards. When she arrived at the War Hall she waved the guards to their customary positions, and discarded the long, showy gown she’d worn in court. Underneath she wore a light leather tunic and skirt. She carried a decorative dagger on her left hip and the royal scepter in her belt to the right.

  As always, the world map lay open on the long table. Various figurines stood on the board, representing the units of other realms. No elf units were represented. Sarona went to a small flat box. She lifted the lid, reached in and pulled out the black miniature of Varg.