Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) Page 21

  Behind the emperor came an old man. He had dark hair shot with streaks of white and a wrinkled brown face with heavy furrows star-bursting from the corners of stern brown eyes. The old man paused in the doorway, looked nervously around outside, and then slipped in and closed the door.

  “Your Highness,” stammered Gant, dropping his hand away from his sword. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you, Gant of the Ironlimbs,” said the boy emperor, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Let me introduce Kalmine,” he said, pointing to the old man who’d entered last, “my one trusted advisor. And Captain Hesh and soldiers Krist, Patt and Faltern. Also loyal to me.”

  Gant nodded to each. “I would have returned to the palace if you wanted to see me. How did you know where to find me?”

  “An emperor has ways.” The boy chuckled as if that were a joke. “If I wanted you to come to the palace I would have sent for you. Instead, I wish to join you. I am smothered in the palace by controlling ministers. I have no power. I am going with you to search for and recover the Sword of Emperors. When I come back, no one will deny me my birthright. With Thantalmos, I will be emperor. Then I’ll get rid of the idiots who suffocate me day after day.”

  Gant saw the fierce determination grow in the emperor’s blue eyes and the set of his chin.

  “I think that’s impossible, your highness.”

  “Then you can go to jail. I’ll claim you kidnapped me. If I go back to the palace you’ll go with me.”

  “But it’s dangerous out there.”

  “No worse than in my palace. Boy rulers don’t live long, and anyway, my ministers keep me under thumb. I spend each day forced into the same dull palace routine. I am nothing but a title they use. I have to get away and you are my only chance.”

  “I can’t take you with me.”

  “You must. I have to get out of here.”

  “Let them come along,” said Zandinar who had entered the kitchen unnoticed.

  “It’s dangerous. He’ll get killed.”

  “So. Everybody dies. You and I may die. Has your spirit died? Aren’t you filled with a sense of adventure, of wonder?”

  Gant paused. It did seem strange for him to be telling others to avoid danger.

  “Okay,” he conceded, and then to the emperor, “but you are not in charge. You will follow orders, and no one is to address you as ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Majesty’. What’s your name?”

  “Pristum.”

  “Then Pristum it is, or better yet, just Pris.”

  The boy nodded and Gant read his dreams in his eyes.

  “You might as well make yourself comfortable, Pris,” said Gant, motioning to the chairs in the kitchen. “We’re waiting for someone else, and we don’t know when he’ll return.”

  The boy emperor glanced over his shoulder at Kalmine. A trapped look crossed his face. “We can’t wait long. Chantel will send out troops once he discovers I’m gone. If we don’t leave now, you’ll have to fight the entire City Watch.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard,” laughed Zandinar, and the soldiers tensed. “However, I think Abadis has been detained, else he would have returned by now.”

  Gant nodded agreement. Anything was better than sitting around doing nothing. “Under the circumstances, we’d better put some distance between us and Malathon. Let’s go to Abadis’ house. We can wait there and it should be safe.”

  “As good a plan as any,” said Zandinar.

  “I’ll tell Sylvia we’ll meet Abadis at his house,” said Gant and started out of the kitchen. He paused and then turned back. “Pris, can you find horses for all of us? We’ll need them.”

  Pris nodded and sent Captain Hesh out while Gant went to talk to Sylvia. Gently knocking on her door soon had her up. She promised to relay the message when Abadis returned, but insisted they not leave until she could pack them something to eat. By the time she had everything ready, Captain Hesh was back with eight splendid horses requisitioned from the Emperor’s First Horse Legion by order of Captain Hesh. Gant was last out the door. He mounted the horse waiting for him, thanked Sylvia for the food and drink, and the party started off down the dimly-lit alleyway.

  The steady clatter of the horse’s hooves echoed between the close-packed buildings as they moved down the narrow twisting streets. Once they passed a duo of City Watch on foot patrol. They passed quickly and did their best to conceal their identity from the men. Everywhere along their course, the windows remained shuttered and they passed unseen out through the western gate.

  Once out of Malathon, they increased the pace to a canter. Gant rode beside Zandinar where he could talk without being overheard. “What do you know of this sword the emperor is looking for?”

  “Only the legend everyone knows,” said Zandinar, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “What's that?”

  “Thantalmos. Screaming Death, The Sword of Emperors, given to the First Emperor by the High Elves when elves and men were friends. It was lost by the 7th Emperor, Maxidim, during the First Forest War. The elves recaptured it and vowed never to return it. It is said that no man except the emperor can pick it up and live.”

  “Does it exist?”

  “Probably. Who knows? Most legends have at least a fragment of truth.”

  They rode on through the dark countryside in silence. Before long, the walls of Maltic City loomed in front of them. Here they detoured off the road, passing through the woods on the south side of the city to avoid detection. Shortly after dawn they regained the road west of Maltic City and headed for Blasseldune.

  They rode steadily the rest of the day occasionally passing a caravan with its brace of wagons and accompanying mercenaries. The caravan masters nodded and politely moved aside, respecting the uniform of the Empire. Just before nightfall they left the territory claimed by the Empire. They camped for the night in the wilderness, choosing to avoid the large campgrounds or inns regularly used by the caravans. Instead they found a small clearing off the road and camped there.

  The fire burned cheerfully in the little stone pit. They tied the horses nearby and set watches. Gant and Krist took the first turn. Zandinar and Patt volunteered for second watch, and last would be Captain Hesh and Faltern. Pris demanded a turn. Gant refused and the emperor sulked away but was soon fast asleep.

  Gant settled down in a spot out of the firelight where he had a view of everything that happened in the camp without being seen. For a while, Krist sat hunkered beside a bush on the opposite edge of camp. As time passed, Krist became restless, shifting from one foot to the other, standing, stretching, and then crouching back down.

  Finally, near the end of their watch, Krist crept over beside Gant. He cleared his throat, looked around nervously, and then asked, “Were you really the winner at Devonshield?”

  “Yes,” said Gant quietly, a bit flattered.

  “Have you killed many men?”

  “No, not many.” A trace of nausea reminded him of those he’d had to kill. “None that I could avoid.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes listening to the fire crackle. When Krist spoke next his voice quivered. “I’ve been wondering. Is it true, the enemy we go to fight is led by a demon?”

  Gant stared into the soldier’s face; the orange glow of the firelight highlighted the fear there. “Yes, there is a demon among their forces. Do you want to go back?”

  Krist straightened. “No, sir. I’m sworn to his Highness and I’ll be with him unless they kill me.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. Who knows if and when we will meet our enemies? I doubt we will be killed tonight.”

  Zandinar rolled over in his furs. “Don’t be too sure about death. She’s a warrior’s companion.”

  A rustle in the leaves some distance from the campsite halted the conversation. Gant reached for Valorius and immediately she was in his hand. The three of them listened, eager to catch any sound, but the woods remained silent as a tomb. Slowly, Zandinar got to his feet and slipped out bet
ween the dark tree trunks. Gant grabbed a brand from the fire and followed with Krist on his heels. They found nothing and returned to camp.

  “It was probably just an animal. It’s my turn, so you two get some sleep,” said Zandinar, and woke the second guardsman.

  Gant lay down on his bedroll and was soon fast asleep.

  Morning dawned and the party pushed on after a cold breakfast. The road became a winding streak of dust flowing between towering oaks and maples. They moved swiftly, but boredom set in and their movements became mechanical. Gant had a gnawing feeling that they were being followed, that eyes watched from the deep shadows of the wood. He saw nothing though and the day stretched on.

  By early evening, they approached the outskirts of Blasseldune. They’d seen several farmers returning from the market. Unless a farmer could contract for deliveries with one of the major inns there was little chance for a decent profit. It seemed these were less fortunate men as their wagons were empty except for a few staples.

  Before they could see the buildings of town, Zandinar pulled his horse to a stop. The blond warrior turned to the rest of the party. “I don’t think we should go through Blasseldune. Gorth has agents there, and these uniforms will bring a lot of questions.”

  “We could cut between fields,” said Gant indicating a set of wagon tracks that turned north off the road and ran between cultivated fields toward a distant tree line. “Somewhere up that way we can strike out through the woods and join the Devonshield Road north of Blasseldune.”

  Zandinar turned his horse onto the wagon track and the group followed. They passed endless rows of well-tended vegetables and an occasional farmhouse set back from the dirt wagon trace. Here and there stands of trees served as windbreaks or woodlots. Slowly they worked their way northwest, circumnavigating Blasseldune.

  Eventually, they passed the last farmhouse. The wagon trace ended and they entered the forest. Tall trees arched overhead blocking out the low sun. The party closed ranks and slowed to let the horses pick their way over tangled roots.

  Gant guided them toward the last faint rays of the dying sun. He wanted to reach the Devonshield Road before nightfall. In the growing twilight, his peripheral vision caught a shadowy movement slipping from tree to tree. But when he looked in that direction there was nothing there.

  “Stop,” said Gant, pulling his horse to a halt. “Someone’s out there,” he said pointing in the direction he’d seen movement.

  The column halted, all eyes focused on the woods. The forest remained still and unmoving. The fading sunlight cast thick shadows and only the faintest rays of light filtered to the forest floor. They waited a minute. Still nothing. Gant kicked his horse and galloped to the spot where he thought he’d seen the shadow. There was nothing except a twisted, man-sized stump of a long dead tree. He wheeled his horse around.

  “Nothing there,” he said rejoining the party and starting forward again.

  “It would do well to keep a sharp lookout,” noted Zandinar.

  As the sun set, the group came out on the road to Devonshield. Immediately, Gant turned north up the wheel-scarred trace.

  Blasseldune was somewhere to the south, too far away even to see the lights.

  “Master Gant,” whispered Captain Hesh. "Wouldn’t it be best if we camped here rather than travel in the dark?”

  “Yes,” added the aged Kalmine. “And the Emp -- I mean Pris is a bit tired and needs rest.”

  Gant stopped, looked at the sagging youth, and contemplated the dark expanse of road winding ahead in the blackness. “You’re right. Let’s move back into the trees far enough so as not to be seen.”

  Eagerly the party pushed into the forest and set up a hasty camp. They built a small fire carefully shielded from the road. Again Gant stood first watch with Krist. The night huddled black and quiet outside the little circle of firelight. Gant had an uneasy feeling that they were being watched. Now and then, he thought he heard a stick crack, but the cheery fire masked the noises from the forest. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of something moving just outside the limit of his vision.

  Eventually he woke Zandinar. “Your watch,” he said. “There’s something not right about the woods tonight. I hear noises and think I see something, but there’s never anything there.”

  “Nerves,” said Zandinar flatly. “Get some sleep.”

  Gant nodded and slipped into his blankets but sleep took a while coming as he imagined all sorts of terrors lurking around their camp. Finally, with a stern effort he forced himself to think of Dalphnia, about her warmth and the peace he’d felt near her. He fell asleep.

  Zandinar woke Captain Hesh and Faltern for the final watch. While the rest slept, the Captain and Faltern sat comfortably around the fire and nodded off to sleep. The fire burned down to coals. The absolute blackness before dawn stole over the camp hiding the growing band of shadowy figures watching from cover. With the darkness, the intruders moved stealthily into the camp. Quietly they surrounded each slumbering figure with a bristling wall of spears. At a nod from their leader they prodded the sleepers with razor-sharp spearheads.

  Gant came fully awake. Valorius leaped into his groping fingers. The steel tipped spear nudged his unprotected neck and he glared up into half dozen sets of cold, dark eyes.

  “No one move, or you’ll all die,” barked the leader from beside the fire pit.

  Gant saw that everyone was surrounded. Even if he escaped, the others would pay the price. He fought to control his burning rage, forced himself to remain motionless.

  Chapter 33

  In Pogor, Barlon Gorth wrestled with the everyday problems of wielding power. His “people” were uneasy, merchants demanded justice for breached contracts, thieves stole, and new conscripts turned up daily seeking to join his ever-swelling army. Success bred success. He hated dealing with mundane problems preferring to strut along the battlements viewing his city, reminding himself how masterful he was. He loved power and wanted more.

  But Barlon knew that power could just as easily be lost. So even on his best days he felt a sense of dread. He was wary of a populace unenthusiastic about his rule. He never left the castle grounds and all the castle servants were trusted staff who came with him from the Mountain Castle. He did not permit locals inside unless they were heavily guarded. He worried about revolt and with these thoughts in mind he had sent for Shalmuthe, Sir Jarlz and General Eckert.

  The scarred master spy relaxed in his customary chair in the tower chamber facing the others.

  “These people are more interested in their profit than who runs the city. There are few left who would openly oppose you. Some thought of stirring up resistance, but we’ve ferreted them out and their heads line the streets,” reported the spy.

  “Then any that remain have gone underground,” said General Eckert.

  “Yes, and my men are after them.”

  “Good,” said Barlon nodding his approval. “Never let up. There are too many ignorant peasants who know nothing of justice. Do whatever you have to and get rid of anyone who opposes us.”

  “Don’t worry.” The look in Shalmuthe’s eyes signaled that the peasants were the ones who should beware.

  Barlon smiled, stood, and paced a few steps toward the window. Turning, he asked, “Are the plans complete for taking Blasseldune?”

  General Ecker nodded, half-heartedly. “Yes, we are ready. A poorly defended city is an easy mark, but shouldn’t we consolidate our power here before extending our forces to the east?”

  “General Ecker, you surprise me. Don’t you want a larger kingdom?”

  “I’ve had little enough time to enjoy the kingdom I already have. It won’t be long before I’m too old to enjoy anything.”

  After a moment’s silence the gray haired warrior added, “There’s too much trouble here to start another campaign. You say it’s about finished, but what about the underground here in Pogor? What about Daggon?”

  Barlon's smile widened. “Yes, what about Daggon?” He turne
d to look at Shalmuthe. “Have you invited the king here?”

  “Yes, he will arrive day after tomorrow.”

  “You see, General, there are no problems here. The Farmer King is a fool. I’ve sent Varg and Lom’s knights to ‘escort’ the good king to Pogor. A pity I can’t be there to see it. Soon his head will adorn my palace. He is the last. After he’s dead, I’ve repaid the treachery of the Western Kings.”

  Barlon finished his walk to the window. He gazed out, hands together behind his back. For a few minutes, the room was silent.

  Finally, Sir Jarlz spoke. “Sir, do you trust the Scaltzland Priests?”

  Barlon whirled. “Not in the least, and Shalmuthe has a plan for them, too, though we won’t discuss it here. Yes, things are going perfectly. Superior men attract power. The rest remain peasants where they belong.”

  “Is that all, my lord?” asked Shalmuthe, rising from his chair.

  “Yes, of course, you’ve better things to do.”

  As Shalmuthe left, General Ecker and Sir Jarlz rose. With a nod from Barlon, they too left. As soon as they were gone, Barlon yelled for the guard. A stern-faced young soldier entered.

  “Have the kitchen send up a bottle of wine,” ordered Barlon. “And be quick about it.”

  The guard disappeared and Barlon slumped into a chair, throwing his feet up onto the table.

  Barlon closed his eyes and dozed. He snapped awake at the sound of the door opening. A girl dressed in the coarse garb of the kitchen servants stepped timidly into the room carrying a tray with two bottles of wine and several cut crystal goblets. Her face was an ugly mass of scar tissue. She set the tray lightly on the table before Barlon and stepped back with a hint of a bow, her eyes on the floor.

  “Wait,” said Barlon, before she could leave. “Come here,” and he motioned her back.