Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  “Finally you come back for us,” she said to the tiny statue, placing it next to the cast replica of Fort Pal. “After all these years, I hope Bartholomew’s teachings are true, or we shall all perish.”

  The ministers began to file in followed closely by the High Priest. In his arms he carried a tremendous book with covers made of thin oak. Numerous runes were burned into the cover and though the book seemed ancient, a sulphurous odor clung to it. The High Priest set the massive tome on a pedestal designed to hold it at waist level. He mumbled a few words, nodded with his eyes closed and opened the front cover. Without hesitation, the High Priest flipped the yellowed pages to a well-worn spot in the text.

  “Bartholomew writes,” he read from the text. “Varg shall not stay imprisoned forever. Men of evil intent shall free him to do their foul deeds. Though their control seems perfect to their narrow sight, it is inevitable that Varg shall escape their power and seek the ruin of man and elf. Much cannot be seen about when, how, or why this will come to pass, but I fear that it will happen in a time when there is no magic strong enough to stop Varg once he is loosed upon my people.”

  The High Priest stopped. “And we have no wizards who can stop Varg.” There was a plaintive note in his voice.

  “I know that,” said Sarona. “We all know he predicted Varg’s return. Read the section that refers to ridding us of Varg, and stop talking as if we were doomed.”

  “Yes, Majesty.” The priest flipped several pages, scanned until he found what he wanted, and then read aloud, “Though time holds many secrets, do not despair. There may be a warrior of your time mighty enough to kill Varg in this existence and send him back to his realm of darkness. It is less clear who this warrior may be. I can see battle, many battles and many will try and fail, but perhaps there is one who can succeed. Victory is not without sacrifice.”

  The priest flipped several more pages, and then read again. “I cannot discover the name of the warrior who can defeat Varg. Every attempt fails. Perhaps he does not exist.”

  “I cannot bear the thought of the carnage, the annihilation, of my beloved people. I have taken matters into my own hands as best I can. There will be a distant grandson of mine who will rise to the pinnacle of armed combat. I have seen this though I have no name to put to him either. I have fashioned a sword and magical armor like none elsewhere on this world. My sacrifice was great for it took almost a full year to accomplish, and in that time I missed my friends and lover grievously, as I know they did me. Yet, if it will save our races, I have no regrets.”

  “The sword and armor are entrusted to someone I know will deliver them at the proper time, someone who knows what clue to watch for. When Varg rises again, seek out my progeny, seek his aid, show him my words and pray that my powers are strong enough to last through the centuries. That is all I can do.”

  The priest closed the book.

  “Well, where is Bartholomew’s great-great grandson?”

  The priest grunted.

  “We know he won at Devonshield, Majesty,” said the Minister of State. “He was with Sir Jarlz but went south alone. We lost him on the road through the Great Forest near Dalphnia’s enchanted woods. He was headed for Falls Hill, but when we got there Gant never arrived.”

  Sarona glared at her minister. “Why was I not told of this immediately? Now our only hope is lost.”

  “We don't know that. Gant may live.”

  “Then where is he? Where did he go? Find him!”

  She slammed her fist into her palm and stormed for the door.

  “Priest,” she shouted, pausing in the doorway, “look for another way to stop Varg. Don’t stop until you have an answer.”

  Sarona left. The room fell silent. Eventually the ministers moved off to their daily tasks. Doom darkened their faces and wearied their bodies. The dark elves were preparing for their worst nightmare.

  Chapter 25

  Gant lay in bed and watched the sun rise through the opening between branches in Dalphnia’s treehouse. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d seen it rise from the treehouse. It didn’t matter. The golden disc rose steadily higher as he watched. He was still aglow from her touch, happy for her, happy for himself.

  From the garden he heard Dalphnia’s silver voice singing. Birds whistled to her from the low branches of nearby trees. Everywhere within her influence there was harmony. Dalphnia brought him peace and everything around her.

  Gant sat up. He wanted to go down to Dalphnia. Sometimes he helped her in the garden. Sometimes they walked in the woods. Always he was with her, every waking moment. He rolled out of bed, pulled on his breeches and peeked into the closet at the glimmering armor and sword that were supposed to be his. Every day he looked at the sword and longed to touch it. If only he could remember. But the memories were locked away. If it really was his, he should remember.

  Today he stood a moment longer. Something about the sword held his attention. Hauntingly, it called to him. He started to turn away. The sword’s lure strengthened.

  He stepped toward the sword, still resisting the desire to touch it. The closer he got the stronger the feeling became until the lust to hold the sword burned in him. He struggled against it, reminding himself that the past was better off left buried. He was happy, content.

  He inched closer. Emotions swept over him that he could no longer resist. As if sleep walking, he reached for the hilt. Almost before his hand moved, the sword leaped from its scabbard into his hand. The moment the hilt kissed his palm, his ancestor’s incredible magic flooded his brain, sweeping away the cobwebs, dissolving Dalphnia’s spell. Gant stood once more the son of the Joshua, Netherdorf smith. His memories rushed back like a tidal wave. He remembered everything.

  He twisted Valorius this way and that, watching the sun flash off her blade. He marveled all over again at her perfection and power. The euphoria lasted only a minute.

  Dalphnia’s sweet song drifted up from the garden. He thought of her beautiful face, beaming up at him, as happy in his company as he was in hers. Now he knew what she was, knew the magic she had woven to keep him here. The spell was broken. And yet in his heart there was an attachment. Maybe it was love.

  He was confused, hurt, embarrassed, all at once. He knew he should return to his own world and do whatever it took to erase the blemish from his name. To stay with Dalphnia was to join her other husbands in the quaint little graveyard.

  And what of the armor, of Valorius? They might be needed. Uric had gone seeking Varg. How long ago had that been? Was he too late? He needed time to think. No, too much time had passed already. He had to get going.

  The magic in Valorius called stronger than ever. Strange forces pulsed from the sword filling him with a foreboding that he’d never felt before. He recognized the sword’s call to battle, knew that somewhere Varg waited, and he would have to answer. He owed it to Uric, and to Bartholomew. They had staked too much on Gant’s ability to use Valorius against Varg.

  He tried to remember the whole story Uric had told. About how Bartholomew had fallen in love with the Queen of the Dark Elves, and how they had eventually banished Varg back to the dark regions to save the elves and seal their marriage. He wished he’d paid more attention to the sage when he’d explained it.

  Too late now, he thought, and resolutely donned his armor. Miraculously, he noted that the holes from Egog’s bite were gone, not patched, more like healed.

  What about Dalphnia? What could he say to her? His heart told him there was nothing that would ease her pain. He wished it wasn’t necessary. Her spell was broken, but something lived in his heart, something born of a different kind of magic.

  He went downstairs, Valorius at his side singing heroic songs in his mind. An old fire burned in Gant again, the same fire that had burned there since a boy on a school bench had listened to his first story of knighthood.

  He strode to the garden. Dalphnia knelt with her back to him, glorious rays of sun reflecting off her hair. It almost made him take off the
armor and hang it back in the closet.

  “Dalphnia,” he whispered.

  “Oh, you’re up,” she said, turning. She froze the instant she saw him. The smile died on her lips. “You’re going?” It was both a question and a plea.

  “Yes, I. . .”

  He took her in his arms and held her. It was a cold embrace. The hurt inside her came through.

  “No one ever leaves,” she whispered. “Gant,” she pleaded, looking at him with wide brown pools that tried to pull him under, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved any man. Don’t leave.”

  Her hurt was his hurt. The depth and breadth of it staggered him. “If only I could stay,” he said finally. “But we’d never know happiness. Not with my family out there caught in the coming darkness or killed by it. I hate to leave, believe me. But I'm afraid I’ve been here too long already.”

  “Then I'll go with you.”

  “No. You belong here where there is love and life.” Gant looked once more into those deep brown eyes. Pain flowed from them along with a flicker of understanding. “I’ll come back to you,” he said softly.

  “No, no. Don’t lie. You’ll never come back.” Tears followed. She turned and dashed up the steps into the treehouse.

  Gant turned slowly to go. His heart ached. He would come back.

  #

  At first, Gant wasn’t sure which direction to go and he wasn’t going back to ask Dalphnia for directions. He moved generally eastward through the forest. Soon he crested a small hill and through the trees caught sight of the south branch of the Rushon River. He decided to make for that and gain passage on one of the boats that would pass on their way from Falls Hill to Malathon. From there, he’d buy a horse and travel to Blasseldune. Then he’d get word to his uncle.

  #

  Days later, Gant rode into Blasseldune. A river boat had picked him up and taken him swiftly down river to Malathon where he’d bought a horse and rode as fast as possible northwest, through Maltic City to Blasseldune. The city was much as Gant remembered, only this time as he rode into town, the tight groups of warriors and swordsmen nodded deferentially or stared tight-lipped and silent. A couple of men shouted “hello” and called him Ironlimb. He nodded, or waved politely, but without enthusiasm. The long trip had worn him down and while it felt good to be close to home, he knew this was as close as he could get.

  Gant thought of Hammond House but instead went straight to the Drake hoping his uncle would be there. Jake came out from behind the bar as Gant made for his customary table. He sat down heavily, not from the weight of his armor, but from the weight of his travels. Dalphnia remained in his thoughts. He realized her hold on him was more than the magic she might have used on other men. He was determined to return to her one day.

  Gant scanned the common room. Several patrons were dressed in working garb. Here and there sat armed men. In one corner, a lone dark elf sat with his feet on the table, sipping a mug of ale. There were no familiar faces and Gant was too tired to care. Jake set a large tankard of ale in front of Gant, and then leaned over to collect his fee.

  “See the two in the corner,” he said nodding toward the farthest corner. “They’ve been asking for you for the last week. Grim sort, they are, never speaking to anyone, except now and then when some new knight arrives. They’d ask if it was you. Next time I get to their table, they’ll be asking who you are. What should I tell them?”

  Gant studied Jake’s chubby face. Fear erased the tavern owner’s usual cheerful smile. And it was obvious that Jake did not want trouble. Nonetheless, Gant was not going to deny who he was.

  “Tell them who I am,” he said resolutely.

  Jake started to say something and then silently picked up Gant’s offered coin and turned back to other customers. Gant sipped his ale and watched the two strangers. They were bear-like men with shaggy, dark hair and wild unkempt beards. He wondered what they wanted. Huge broadswords hung at their sides and though they wore heavy fur garments Gant could tell they had breastplates beneath. He’d never seen either of them, though they reminded him of one of the warriors at Devonshield. Maybe they needed his help. After all, he was the Devonshield champion. He took another sip from the mug of ale. Curiosity got the better of him. He rose and went straight to their table.

  “I’m Gant. I hear you’re looking for me.”

  Both men looked up incredulously, their hands shifted to their swords.

  The farthest from Gant said, “You’re either a liar or you’re crazy.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Cause we’ve come to collect Lord Gorth’s bounty. All former Knights of Netherdorf are worth one thousand gold coins.”

  “And you’re worth three thousand, if you are who you say you are,” said the second.

  “What are you talking about? What do you mean, former Knights of Netherdorf?” Gant wondered what happened to King Tirmus’ knights. Who was Lord Gorth? How could he put a bounty on Gant?

  “Lord Gorth has taken Netherdorf. King Ecker now rules there, though he’s gone to war in the West. The bounty will still be paid.”

  “Yes, we already collected five hundred for bringing in the head of one of the captains.”

  Gant’s mind reeled. King Tirmus deposed! The knights hunted, and he along with them. “What about King Tirmus?” he demanded. His hands began to tremble.

  “Escaped,” said the first. “There’s ten thousand gold on his head,” he said tightening his grip on his sword.

  Gant’s eyes burned to pinpoints. A rage grew in him like nothing he’d ever felt. If Netherdorf had fallen, what of his father, mother, Uncle Jarlz, and Uric?

  “What about Sir Jarlz? Have you taken him yet?”

  “Sir Jarlz?” The first one laughed. “He was the only smart knight in all Netherdorf. He joined Lord Gorth at the outset.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Gant’s right hand moved toward Valorius and instantly she was in his hand. He leaped forward, Valorius whirling in short, practiced arcs. For big men, they were quick. Both rolled sideways from their stools, swords out, regaining their feet on either side of Gant.

  “We may even have to earn the extra two thousand,” joked the one to Gant’s left.

  “Doubt it,” returned the other.

  Gant stepped toward the man on his right. Nearby patrons scattered, leaving overturned stools in their wake. The bear-like figure held his ground. Valorius swung down, slicing the blade off the big man’s sword as if it were soft brass. As the burly man stared at the stump of his sword, Gant lunged in with his right shoulder slamming into the man’s breastplate and sent him sprawling backward.

  The second man rushed Gant from behind. Gant heard his footsteps, spun, blocked with the flat of his blade, and then in one smooth motion chopped down on the bounty hunter’s right arm. Gant stopped Valorius before she cut too deep. There was a rush of crimson and a grunt of pain. Gant stepped in for a backhand swing.

  “Stop.”

  It came softly in Gant’s ear, barely discernible, yet it echoed inside his mind with a strange power that demanded attention.

  Gant stopped, turned. Behind him, dressed in full battle armor, stood the fairest warrior Gant had ever seen. The man was a full head taller than Gant. He had golden hair flowing out from under his sparkling helm. His eyes were the deepest blue but were tainted by a sadness that didn’t belong. His face was square and lean with a strong, cleft chin. Even his teeth were white and perfect.

  “You have attacked peaceful citizens unprovoked. I cannot allow it.” Again the voice was soft, barely a whisper and yet it rang within Gant’s mind loud and clear.

  What could he say? To an outside observer it probably looked like he had attacked them. Yet they had come to kill him.

  “It is not your business,” Gant said finally.

  “Right and wrong are always my business.”

  “Then you should learn which side is right.”

  “No. The sword shall decide.”

  With that,
the stranger drew a beautiful, shimmering sword. Yellow rays glittered off the finely crafted length of steel. Faintly, here and there, a rune or marking shimmered as the stranger twisted it slowly left and right. Gant stepped back into a defensive posture with Valorius held ready. The newcomer’s sword looked every bit as splendid, maybe more so. Gant realized this was not going to be easy.

  “This is foolish,” said Gant. The madness had left him and now the thought of more suffering revolted him.

  The blond warrior did not answer. He darted in, his first move a straight lunging thrust at Gant’s midsection. An easy snap of the wrists turned it aside. Gant slid backward another half step. The stranger wheeled his sword overhead, tracing an arc aimed at Gant’s neck. The two blades met edge to edge with a fiery hiss of sparks. Gant noted with surprise that the other sword withdrew unmarked. So did Valorius.

  Gant countered now, swinging low at the blond man’s midsection. The stranger turned it aside. Gant followed that with another attack. That too was blocked. Now Gant had to block. The swords met again in a shower of sparks.

  Gant thrust straight in, but was swept aside.

  This time the stranger moved Valorius far enough to the side to create an opening on Gant’s opposite side. The blond warrior struck like a snake. It was too fast. The magnificent sword slammed into Gant’s armor, the force almost knocking Gant from his feet. There was a flash of white light and a loud crack. Gant’s armor held. The stranger drew back leaving only a thin crease.

  Gant staggered off balance, open to attack.

  Instead of taking advantage, the stranger stared wide-eyed at Gant, his blue eyes riveted on the spot where his sword had landed. Gant righted himself. The stranger pulled himself up ramrod straight, his sword arm lowering ever so slowly until the tip rested on the floor.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, awe in his voice. “I’ve made a terrible mistake. I could not know you were The One.”

  Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee, laying his sword at Gant's feet. “If you’ll have me, I seek only to serve you.”