Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) Page 17

  Varg ravaged their numbers for a few minutes, delighting in the slaughter. Then, the ranks thinned and, as if on command, the line of swordsmen parted, leaving a wide gap. Varg charged through until he was past the front line of the Western troops. The line fought its way back closed, cutting Varg off from the rest of Barlon’s men.

  From his raised position Barlon watched, intent on the slaughter of Petre and his aides. Varg charged them, filled with battle rage. When the demon was still fifty lengths from the command group, several of the servants in-waiting cast off their peasant garb and Barlon recognized Petre’s most powerful wizards. They locked hands and let go a salvo of raging fire. For a moment, Varg was engulfed in the inferno. Calmly, he reappeared out the other side, laughing.

  The wizards regrouped and cast another spell. This time a shimmering bubble materialized around Varg. He tried to step through it but a dazzling eruption of blue sparks stopped him. Varg raked at the bubble with his vicious talons producing another shower of sparks. Furiously, the demon lashed out again and again at the encapsulating globe. The sparks grew weaker and finally his talons cut slits down the front of the force field. Angrily Varg shredded a portal through the bubble and stepped back onto the plain.

  By now Petre’s command group had retreated. Varg sprinted after them. Before he could close with the circle of men another bubble formed around him. Again, he was held while he slashed and ripped at the trap. Eventually Varg opened a way through that force field and again the command group had retreated.

  Barlon raged as the force bubble repeated a third cycle, frustrating Varg’s attempts to gain on Petre’s headquarters.

  “Razgoth, get up here,” Barlon yelled at his wizard.

  “Sire, the disc will only support one man.”

  “Fine. Then you get up here and tell me what is going on.”

  Razgoth lowered the disc. Barlon got off, his face an insane scowl. Razgoth stepped onto the disc and raised it once more. He watched the cycle unfold yet another time. Their trick was easy to guess and Razgoth let himself down.

  “Well, what is it? What are they doing?” demanded Barlon.

  “It is a force field of positive energy, not strong enough to permanently capture or hurt Varg but enough to slow him down. It is lucky for them their wizards were in the right place.”

  “Luck!” screamed Barlon. “It was not luck. They met Lom’s charge with Petre’s cavalry. They knew what we were going to do. A spy! There’s a spy in our midst. Recall the attack. Pull back. We must find the spy. Turn the camp inside out. Overlook no one. Bring me his head and then we’ll attack and see if they can guess our plans.”

  “But, sire. . .” Razgoth started, but was waved away.

  Barlon mounted his horse and without a word to his commanders, returned to his tent. He failed to notice the eagle soaring high above the battlefield. As the troops pulled back, it turned and winged its way toward the Monolith Mountains.

  Chapter 27

  In the middle of the night a great owl swooped low over Gant’s campfire. It glided into the woods and settled on a thick branch. For a long time it sat there staring at Gant. Its great round eyes studied him, and then focused on the sleeping Zandinar. Watching the owl, an uneasy feeling grew in Gant. There was something different about the owl, a sense of intelligence in those great dark eyes.

  Finally he couldn’t stand it. “Zandinar, wake up,” Gant said nudging his sleeping companion.

  Instantly, Zandinar was awake, sword out, on his feet. “What is it?”

  “That owl,” said Gant, pointing.

  “An owl?” Zandinar sheathed his sword. “Fight it yourself. I’m going back to sleep.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It’s watching us.”

  “So?” Zandinar rolled over in his bulky furs.

  “Maybe it’s a messenger from Abadis, a watch-owl or something. Maybe we can get it to come down and take a message to him.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Gant knew that there was something strange about that owl. Maybe it was an enemy sentinel watching for Abadis’ return. Gant couldn’t decide what to do. As he watched, the great bird spread its wings and sailed off between the trees toward the main road. Too late, thought Gant, and absentmindedly stirred the fire with a long stick. He tossed a couple of pieces of wood on the fire, and then sat back down as a shower of sparks rose skyward.

  “I don't believe we’ve met,” said a feminine voice from the shadows nearby.

  Gant leaped to his feet, ready to pull out his sword. There, just inside the flickering circle of firelight stood a slim wisp of a girl dressed in a snow-white, knee-length gown. Her brown hair was cut short. A smile, half-formed, flickered on her lips.

  “Gant, I’m Gant, recently of Netherdorf,” he said, suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Gant of the Ironlimbs?”

  “Yes,” he admitted, more than slightly flattered.

  “Let me see the gauntlets.”

  “What gauntlets?”

  “The ones you wore at Devonshield.”

  “How do you know about those?”

  “I know everything my grandfather makes.”

  “Your grandfather? I didn't know Abadis was a grandfather.”

  “I’m sure there are a great many things you don’t know. Now let me see the gauntlets.”

  “You’ll have to help me off with my armor.”

  “No. I’m not accustomed to getting that close to strangers. Have your friend help you.”

  “What is this?” asked Zandinar, rising from his pile of furs.

  “And you claim to be Zandinar,” said Amelia. She dropped her pretext of wariness and walked boldly into camp, sitting lightly on a log that lay near the fire. “I’ve heard of you, too. Very noble and brave, you’re supposed to be.” Now she turned to Gant. “Show me the sleeves.”

  “Just a minute,” he said sourly, motioning for Zandinar to help him remove his gauntlets.

  There beneath his magic armor, Gant still wore the beautiful, silvery sleeves that had saved him at Devonshield.

  “Satisfied?” he asked as Amelia inspected them.

  “Yes, these are my grandfather’s. But why aren’t you waiting inside? He wouldn’t mind.”

  “No way to get the horses through the screen,” said Zandinar.

  Amelia smiled.

  “Now who are you and where’s your grandfather?” asked Gant, more than a little indignant about being bossed around by such a wisp of a girl, even if she was Abadis’ granddaughter.

  “I am Amelia and my grandfather has gone looking for you. Come on, we’d all feel better inside. I don’t have much time before I have to get back.”

  Without waiting for questions, the slender apparition in white walked to Abadis’ protective force field and gingerly touched it with the tips of her fingers. The field slowly discolored to a pale blue and a large opening appeared.

  “Hurry up, bring the horses.”

  She stood by the opening and waited while the two men gathered their belongings and horses. As soon as they were inside, she ducked through and the pale blue force field re-solidified. Quickly it faded to transparent until only a vague shimmer betrayed its presence.

  They hurried inside, leaving the horses untethered on Abadis’ grassy lawn.

  “First, I’ve got to write a message,” said Amelia and went to the mirror.

  “So you’re the one,” said Gant and watched as she wiped the glass clean, and then started marking it with the colored grease stick.

  Amelia’s message read: War has begun. We are holding own for now. Gant is here.

  She smiled, then went to the cupboard and brought three glasses. She poured from a dusty green glass decanter.

  “Grandpa’s elixir always makes me feel better,” she said and drank heartily.

  Gant sipped the dark liquid, noting that Zandinar avoided it. As the sweet fluid reached his stomach a warmth spread almost instantly through his entire body. The weariness and road-soreness disappeared.
Gant felt totally refreshed.

  “This is wonderful,” he said.

  “Yes, it helps fight the fatigue that flying brings on.”

  “Flying? What do you mean by that?” And how do you know so much about the war? Nobody else seems to know there even is a war,” said Gant, studying Amelia. She was not a runner, her lower legs were smooth instead of lined with muscle.

  “It only began this morning. Let’s say a little bird told me.”

  Gant glared at her. Whatever her secret, she probably learned it from her grandfather. Magic was beyond Gant, except when it came to using his sword. “If you’re Abadis’ granddaughter, where are your mother and father?”

  A new sadness overcame Amelia. “I never knew my father. He was a knight from the Eastern Empire who charmed mother on his way to war and she never saw him again. My mother died when I was young. My grandfather raised me.”

  “And your grandmother. Where is she?”

  “You’ll have to ask grandfather. Right now I have to leave,” she said, and started for the door. “You two should wait here. Grandpa will be home soon. He’ll know what’s best. Tell him I’ll be back tomorrow night to give him another report on the war.”

  “Fine,” said Gant sarcastically. Inaction wore him down. It left too much time for thinking and worrying.

  “We'll enjoy the rest,” said Zandinar, sweeping one hand around the sparsely furnished room. And then he walked to his belongings, took out his water flask and drank deeply.

  “Goodbye.” And Amelia was out the door, through the shield and gone into the night.

  Gant straightened up on his stool, his back arched to stretch stiff muscles. “We’re stuck here. We can’t get the horses out without her.”

  “Abadis better come home soon,” said Zandinar.

  The blond warrior threw down his furs and soon lay fast asleep on top of them. Gant was too tense to sleep. He paced around the table, worried about Sir Jarlz, his family and King Tirmus. And, as happened too often lately, his thoughts turned to Dalphnia. He wondered if she understood. Would she want him when he returned? Sometimes he wondered why he was doing what he was, but Uric's words rang in his ears, only Valorius could defeat Varg and only if Gant wielded the sword. Gant could not turn his back. Silently he vowed to go back to her when it was all over.

  #

  Meanwhile, miles to the south, on the Rushon River, a small sailing craft slid noiselessly toward shore. Abadis stood on the riverbank under a beacon of magic light that bobbed in the air out over the river where the approaching riverboat crew couldn’t miss it. The old wizard waited as the captain guided his craft in dangerously close to shore.

  “That’s as close as I can get,” hollered the captain, “you’ll have to come out to us.”

  With a snort of disgust, Abadis thought about levitating to the boat but decided against it. Casting spells when he was this tired could lead to disaster. It wasn’t worth it. Resigned, he stepped lightly into the cool, murky water and waded the few steps to the gunwale. The captain reached down a burly hand and helped the tired mage aboard.

  “Welcome aboard, Abadis,” said the captain.

  “Thanks, Melvin, I presume the fare will be the usual.”

  “Of course, and this time, there’s even a spare cabin. Yours without extra charge.”

  The captain led Abadis below decks through the fore hatch to a hallway lined with a dozen closely spaced doors, six on each side.

  “Here you go,” he said, pointing to the third one on the right. “The lock doesn’t work too well, but I’m sure that won’t bother you.” There was a twinkle in the captain’s eye as he turned to go.

  “One question,” said Abadis, lightly catching the captain's shoulder. “Have you had a young warrior aboard? With a magnificent set of armor?”

  “No.”

  “Have you seen such a man on any of your trips? He probably would have been seeking passage from the bank near where you picked me up.”

  “No, but there are a lot of other boats, and the chance he’d find me are slim. Maybe some of the others in Malathon have seen him.”

  “A possibility. Thanks.”

  Abadis reached into a pocket in his robe and pulled out a few gold coins. Holding the stack between his thumb and first two fingers, he dropped them into Melvin’s palm.

  “There’s a bit extra there so see that I’m not disturbed. I’m very tired, what with tramping around in the forest. It’s not good for a man my age.”

  Melvin nodded and retraced his steps up the stairs through the fore hatch. Abadis entered the tiny cabin, shut the door and locked it with a quick spell. He cast a simple rejuvenation spell to help him sleep and recuperate and then, exhausted, he lay back on the straw-stuffed mattress, and fell asleep with his robes on.

  Chapter 28

  On the plains of Chadmir in Barlon’s command tent, the Mountain Lord met with his staff. Scattered around the large folding table in the center of the tent were numerous chairs, some occupied, some empty. The lanterns set upon the table cast a warm light throughout the tent’s interior that did little to change the gloomy mood. It would have been worse except Varg was absent.

  “Have you caught the traitor?” yelled Barlon.

  Blank faces told him “no.” He surveyed the group, his captains and his trusted advisors. Only these men knew the plan well enough to have foiled it. It had to be one of them, but who? “Razgoth,” he said, turning on the wizard. “What about their wizards’ magic? How can we negate it? And Lom, you’ve got to do better against Petre’s knights. You have magic armor. You’re supposed to be invincible! What happened? What went wrong?”

  Barlon went on ranting like a madman, stomping back and forth. He shouted question after question, never allowing anyone time enough to answer. Soon they had all ceased to listen. Finally Barlon ran out of words. He finished with, “Tomorrow we will clear the field of battle. Those inferior, soft, excuses for warriors will not stop us again.”

  The tent remained silent. Some of the men stirred as if to get up, others started toward the door. Barlon motioned for them to stay.

  “Where is Varg?” asked Razgoth.

  “Ah. I’m glad you asked,” said Barlon, twisting his hands together, a hint of glee in his cat-like eyes. “While we sit here doing nothing my ally has forayed into the enemy camp. Darkness is his greatest friend. He will soon return to report our problems solved.”

  Everyone looked around the tent half expecting Varg to spring from the ground. Nothing happened.

  “What is he up to?” asked Razgoth.

  “He is delivering vengeance upon our enemies. Tomorrow Lom will accompany Varg and attack the northern front. Razgoth, you will soften the southern front and ten brigades under General Ecker will attack there. Five brigades will remain in reserve at my command.”

  “What of their magic?” asked Lom who knew he was attacking where Petre’s wizards were strongest.

  “Do not worry.” It was a dark, gravelly voice from the back of the tent. Varg stood towering almost to the top of the sloping canvas roof. “Those wizards will cast no magic tomorrow because I’ve killed them tonight.”

  Silence.

  Then Barlon smiled. “You were successful?”

  “Yes. Individually, they had no protections strong enough to stop a Prince of Darkness.”

  “Then our victory is assured. That is all.” Barlon waved them out.

  The tent emptied except for Varg who stood impassive like some giant obsidian statue.

  “You have done well. Your rewards will be great,” said Barlon, clapping his hands together.

  “Yes, master. My rewards are great.”

  “One day you and I will rule this world.”

  “And I shall have the realm of the Dark Elves.”

  “Yes, yes. Whatever you wish.”

  Barlon poured a cup of wine from the decanter on the table and passed it up to Varg. Then he refilled his own cup and both toasted to victory.

  “Yes,�
� Barlon mused, “as I have my revenge, so you too shall have yours. It is good we understand each other.” Barlon cast his feet up on the table and leaned back.

  He drank heavily, letting the wine take the edge off his tense muscles.

  Varg stood silent. He drained the last of his wine and ate the bronze mug. “Good wine,” he said and burped.

  It wasn’t long before one side of the tent opened without benefit of a flap. A secretive figure slipped in and the tent seemed to reseal itself. Shalmuthe stepped into the torchlight, his hard blue eyes glinting with menace.

  “Shalmuthe,” greeted Barlon, waving his mug to the newcomer. “Have you found our spy?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well.” Barlon poured more wine for himself and a mug for the master spy.

  “Everyone returned to their tents and began immediately planning for tomorrow's battle. All except Griffith. He returned to his tent like the others but inside he has two women. Women I’ve never seen before. Instead of attending to business they attended to pleasure. Perhaps they are the link to the Western Kings.”

  Barlon sprang to his feet. “How did they get here?” he demanded. “Griffith’s a madman. He’s always been on the verge of rebellion. He loves women and blood more than our cause! He must be eliminated.” Barlon shook an index finger in his spy’s face.

  Shalmuthe hesitated, and then spoke at the first lull in Barlon’s rantings. “Lord, I’m sure you know best, but this is highly circumstantial evidence. Griffith may be. . .”

  “No!” Barlon’s fiery glare silenced the shorter man. “Griffith will be executed this night and the sluts that service him too. Sir Jarlz will take command of the 3rd Brigade and lead it tomorrow.”

  Shalmuthe clamped his lips shut.