Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) Page 22

  Obediently she took a step toward him. His eyes ran up and down her body, a hunger there that seldom colored Barlon’s face.

  “Do you like your new king?” he asked, his voice husky with desire.

  “Yes, m’Lord,” she said without emotion.

  “Then you’ll wish to stay with him.”

  She looked up, revulsion in her eyes that she covered before Barlon noticed.

  “The kitchen master said I was to come right back.”

  “So, I’m the king.”

  “Yes, m’Lord, but I’m sure there are nicer women than I.”

  Barlon poured a goblet of wine and drank deeply, draining the glass in one mouthful. His eyes cleared and he looked up again at the frail girl with her horrible face. Barlon laughed, throwing his head back, and then poured another glass of the deep red wine.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “There are more beautiful women than you. Back to the kitchen.” He drained the glass a second time.

  The serving girl curtsied, retrieved her tray and slipped out into the hall. She passed several guards on her way to the narrow stairwell. As soon as she’d gone down the first few stairs, Amelia slumped against the sandstone wall, the tray dangling from her hand. She wasn’t cut out for this. She liked open air, freedom, not secret, covert spying within constricting castle walls. She took a few deep breaths and let her heart slow.

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the winding staircase and immediately she was up, moving down the stairs. She hoped it was not Varg. She’d seen the monstrous demon more than once. So far she had always managed to keep her distance. His insatiable lust for blood and death gave her chills.

  She rounded the curvature of the staircase and almost dropped her tray. Sir Jarlz, long-time friend of her grandfather, plodded steadily up the steps, his head hung down. He wore the exoskeletal purple armor of Barlon’s knights.

  For an instant, Amelia panicked. She started to turn, thought of running back up the stairs. That wouldn’t help. She’d only be running to Barlon’s guards. Worse, she’d be drawing attention to herself. Steeling her screaming nerves, she went down; step-by-step nearer to being exposed. She glared down at the worn stone steps hoping to make her face invisible, hoping the wax scars on her face would hide her identity.

  Nearer, they drew, and finally, as they passed, she couldn’t help glancing up to catch a look at his face. The wax scar tissue worked. There was no recognition. Sir Jarlz’ eyes stared straight ahead, lifeless, covered by a shadow. And in that instant, Amelia saw the thick medallion around his neck. Magic, she thought. That medallion is a mind trap. Somehow she had to get the medallion off of him.

  She hurried back to the kitchen and sped through the endless list of chores. She cleaned, she scrubbed, she made countless deliveries of food, wine, cheese, whatever the nobles wanted. No one came down for their meals anymore and Amelia ran endlessly, hoping for a delivery to Sir Jarlz.

  Finally, she got an order for a tray of cheese, bread and ale for Sir Jarlz. The head cook told her which room was his and she hurried off. Fear sent her pulse racing. Somehow she had to get the amulet from Sir Jarlz.

  She knocked lightly on his door. No answer. She slipped inside and looked around. No one was there. She placed the tray on the small table and left.

  Back in the kitchen she went to the cook. “I went to the room you told me, but Sir Jarlz was not there. I left the tray. Are you sure that was his room?”

  “Yes,” said the cook busy with other preparations. “Sir Jarlz is seldom in his room at the evening meal but we have orders to leave food anyway. Now, get this plate of beef to the barracks.”

  Amelia took the platter and hustled along. She worked long into the night as she’d done every night as serving wench. While she made her deliveries, she worked on a plan to free Sir Jarlz from the medallion. Finally the nobles began to go to sleep, the castle quieted and the cook told her to go to bed. Making sure no one was looking, she took a small block of cheese, a bit of bread and a tray, and ducked out into the hall.

  Quickly she sped to the nobles’ wing, carrying the tray. She passed two guards at the entrance to the nobles’ hallway. Neither bothered to ask the pathetic serving girl where she was going. She skipped up the steps to the second floor, nearly tripping over the drunken form of one of the Brigade Captains asleep on the stairs.

  She rounded the top of the stairs, turned right, and entered a long, dimly lit hallway. In a moment she was at Sir Jarlz’ room. Delicately she tapped on the door, hoping the knight was asleep. No answer.

  She reached for the catch when a voice behind her growled, “You there, what’re you doing?”

  She froze. Slowly, she turned and stared up into a pair of battle-hardened eyes. The man was huge, dressed in the uniform of the castle guard. His sword was out and ready.

  “I-I’m to bring a bit of food to Sir Jarlz,” she said fighting to hold her tray steady.

  “He’s been asleep for hours. Take it back.” He waved her away with his sword point.

  “I can’t do that. The cook’ll have my hide if I don’t make the delivery.”

  “Then eat it yourself. You look like you could use it.”

  Again he waved her away.

  “But what if Sir Jarlz awakens and finds his snack missing? Then I’ll be in worse trouble. Let me put the tray in his room. It’ll only take a moment.”

  The guard hesitated. His sword point sagged. “Okay, just be quick about it.”

  Silently, she opened the door just enough to slip into the room. Sir Jarlz lay on his back, his thickly muscled chest bare above his breeches. The heavy amulet hung off one side of his chest like a mountain climber scaling his side. The bread and cheese she’d brought earlier was almost gone. She put the second tray of bread and cheese on the table beside the first.

  She noticed the ale had disappeared and hoped that deepened the knight’s slumber. Hurrying, she slipped the medallion up over his head so only the chain under the back of his head kept her from taking it. Gently she pulled on the chain, steadily increasing the force until the chain slid between his hair and the pillow. He mumbled in his sleep and rolled to one side. The medallion came free.

  She froze, holding her breath. Sir Jarlz’ eyes never flickered.

  Running lightly on the balls of her feet to the door, she stuffed the medallion up under her sack-like dress so it caught in the belt she wore underneath. Now, slowing, she snuck out the door. The guard was at his post at the end of the hall near the stairs. She felt the amulet swing with each step, like a pendulum. She kept her strides small, hoping to avoid having the amulet raise a bulge in her dress.

  The guard glared at her, but said nothing as she reached the stairwell. She hurried down through the dark, back to the room that had been hers when Fasoom was king. No one used the rooms in the older hall and her things remained untouched. She hid the medallion, and then, exhausted, lay down to sleep. In the morning she would fly with the medallion to the forest in the foothills and hide it in an abandoned eagle’s nest.

  #

  The sun flowed in through the slit windows on the second floor of the nobles’ wing. Sir Jarlz woke feeling fresh, revitalized, like a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He swung his feet to the floor and looked at the evil purple armor against the wall. A flood of memories washed over him, memories of Netherdorf Castle, of dead friends, of Uric hauled away, of battle against the Western Kings and through it all, his sword killing people he knew.

  “How? Am I mad?” he grumbled. He got up, kicked the armor and watched it tumble over. “Why would I wear that cursed armor?” he asked but got no answer. He looked around for a clue, his hands trembling. “I’ve killed them!” He slammed his fist into the purple breastplate. “Killed them all, gone crazy listening to Barlon Gorth,” he screamed. He kicked the armor again.

  Hot tears blurred his vision. With one swipe, he slung the food off the table. Spinning, he lashed out in every direction, swinging wildly, smashing the stools, overturnin
g the table. And then, when there was nothing left to hit, he fell on the bed and cried bitter tears that did nothing to wash away the horrible guilt.

  When he could neither cry nor rage anymore, he got up, pulled on his traveling shirt and went out. He walked like a man in a trance, stumbling blindly out of the castle to the first inn he found. There he sat and drank until afternoon. When he fell from his stool, the innkeeper had him dragged outside and laid under a parked hay wagon to sleep it off.

  Chapter 34

  The afternoon sun brightened the topmost tower chamber. Barlon Gorth slept in one of the chairs, a spilled wine goblet on the floor beside him. Empty wine bottles stood like soldiers at attention in staggered rows across the tabletop. Barlon’s alcoholic stupor persisted despite the bright daylight. At the door to his back, two knights stood stiffly at attention in purple armor. They both stared ahead, their pure white eyes seemingly blind. Wendler was one of them. Barlon had paid them no attention all day.

  Unnoticed by the unconscious Mountain Lord, a pinpoint of blackness formed in the shadows in the far corner of the room. Slowly it grew until it was a pulsating sphere of darkness that filled the entire corner. And then Varg stepped out of the void, a brown leather sack clutched in one massive claw. He looked over at the sleeping figure. Smiling, he set the sack on the table and slowly unfolded the stained leather to reveal the bloody head of the Farmer King, the last of the Western Kings.

  “Your enemies are dead,” he whispered to deaf ears.

  He went to Barlon and deftly slipped the medallion from his neck without waking him. In his eagerness Varg let the chain rub against the man’s ears, but it didn’t register on Barlon’s numbed senses. Triumphantly, Varg placed the medallion around his own neck. Immediately, the gold threads in the medallion released their hold on the demon’s likeness that was in the middle. As the medallion loosened its grip on the molded image, the miniature’s eyes went completely dull while Varg’s eyes shown brighter than ever.

  “Barlon,” he roared, his voice thundering through the stillness.

  Barlon snapped awake. His bloodshot eyes focused on the creature before him.

  “How did you get in here?” he demanded. “Guards!”

  The two Knights of Habichon stood unmoving, their white eyes unblinking.

  “They are with me,” hissed Varg. “The armor has converted their souls to my cause.”

  “But how did you get in here? My men outside the door were told not to let anyone enter.”

  “I came a different way.”

  “Magic? I didn’t know you knew such tricks.”

  “There are many things you’ll never know.” The Demon-Prince’s voice dripped with contempt. “I know a little magic, though I’d never qualify as a wizard. My strength, my power, my invulnerability make all that unnecessary. I have brought you your enemy's head.” He pointed to the bulging-eyed, bloody head resting on the table. “Now, you promised my freedom.”

  Barlon glanced back at the monster. “Not yet. Not until the Priests of Scaltzland are humbled before me.”

  “It is as I thought.” Varg touched the medallion now hanging on his chest.

  Barlon’s eyes widened as he clutched his own bare chest in despair. He started to scream, tried to turn the ring on his left hand, but faster than he could have imagined, one clawed hand clamped around his throat stifling his sound to a choking gasp.

  “But we had a bargain,” rasped Barlon through a half-crushed windpipe. “You can’t break a bargain.”

  “My part is done.”

  Varg squeezed and his hand crushed tighter than a vise. The pressure built in the squashing arteries and veins of Barlon’s neck until his head popped off like a thumb-shot grape. His dead eyes reflected the same terror that was still visible in King Daggon’s head. Hot blood pumped in waves over the chair onto the floor. Varg released his grip and Gorth’s body collapsed to the floor.

  Varg went to the window and pulled the thick curtain over it to shut off the sunlight. Then he went to the growing pool of crimson and dipped one claw into the warm blood. Slowly, meticulously, he drew a large circle on the floor in the darkest corner. After the circle was complete, he filled in around it with a multitude of symbols, runes and signs of power, re-dipping the claw regularly, until the circle was finished and surrounded by runes. He sprinkled a few drops of blood in the center and began a dark, evil chant. Blackness grew in the center of the circle, swelling to fill the area inside until an arched portal opened forming a doorway into a foul landscape. Visible through the blackness was the fiery nether planes of Varg’s home. The land seen through the portal was cracked and barren, tortured beyond recognition. Flames shot skyward, if there was a sky. The land burst open in a crazy spurt of molten lava and clouds of inky smoke obscured the landscape.

  The Demon-Prince waited a few moments. There was a flapping of great leathery wings and through the opening shot a large, bat-like creature with a twisted, skull face. It landed on strong hind legs that resembled a man’s yet ended in a goat’s hooves.

  “Lord Master, you have freed us.”

  “Yes, Grapus, fetch my army. Guide them to the bridge and lead them through.”

  The great winged monstrosity spread its wings and dived back into the blackness. It soon disappeared across the broken landscape.

  Chapter 35

  Amelia woke later than she’d planned. The sun was already well above the horizon. Quickly she recited the spell for changing and became a great eagle. She tested her wings, and with Sir Jarlz’ medallion clutched tightly in one talon, she flew through the window out across the bustling city of Pogor. As fast as she could, she headed east for the Monolith Mountains.

  The sky was clear, with only occasional high white puffs of cotton, and she made good time. The sun had not reached midday when she glided in to land in the massive jumble of sticks that formed an abandoned eagle’s aerie atop a mighty redwood. She rested only a moment after hiding the medallion deep in the nesting material, and then soared back into the sky.

  She was already late for her duties in the kitchen, and knew the cook would be furious. She sped on trying to think of a suitable excuse to blunt the cook’s wrath. Another day or two and she’d have to leave anyway to report to her grandfather. After which she wouldn’t be able to return.

  The plains passed swiftly below, and soon she glided over the sprawling outskirts of Pogor. If she’d been watching, instead of thinking, she would have noticed the masses of people racing from the city, or, as she neared the castle, she might have seen several black creatures flying around the tower.

  She started her final glide toward her window, when a huge, dark shadow fell across her. She turned her head to see what was coming. Too late. She only caught a glimpse of the fanged skull before a talon ripped into her right wing, bowling her over in midair.

  She fell, curled in a fetal position, trailing a plume of feathers, a ball of broken, flightless pain. The black creature flapped wildly to a halt and hovered, trying to follow her crash. However the trail of feathers obscured Amelia’s plummet, and the nightmarish monster didn’t see her plop into the mound of hay in the wagon. It merely turned and flapped noisily back to join the others circling the tower.

  #

  Razgoth stood in his room, lost in thought. Perhaps things would work out all right after all. The people of Pogor seemed willing to accept Gorth’s rule, Varg had been docile enough, and if Razgoth got enough time to study, maybe the demon could be re-exiled.

  A vast black shadow sailed across Razgoth’s window, interrupting his thoughts. What was that? And then the monstrous flying demon circled past the wizard’s window. Razgoth knew what it was. Fear trickled across his gray eyes. Something had gone wrong.

  Immediately the mage was out of his room and into the hall. His first thought was to get to the tower room and find out what was happening. On the stairs above him he heard heavy, hooved feet stomping downward. Without thinking, Razgoth recited the teleportation spell he knew so
well and his body vanished, only to reappear in the top tower room.

  With a tiny burst of light, Razgoth materialized in Barlon’s tower sanctuary. His eyes swept over the carnage. King Daggon’s head remained on the table near where Barlon’s headless body had fallen. A great pulsating blackness filled the air within a magic circle drawn in blood on the floor and through it stepped nameless, horrible things. Varg stood before the gaping portal and accepted each of his minions’ sworn fidelity as they entered the world of man. A massive hole had been blown outward through the thick walls of the tower. Through it, flying things launched and landed. Several other black humanoid monsters stood around Varg.

  All this Razgoth took in in a split second. He knew the danger and prepared to teleport back to the Mountain Castle, where he’d be safe, at least temporarily. Before he could begin his incantation, a stubby, barrel-like thing scuttled at him from behind and ripped into the wizard’s right leg with sharp claws.

  Razgoth screamed, that spell forgotten. In his anger he automatically went on the offensive. A quick word and gesture and flames leaped from his fingertips burning the stumpy creature. The beast collapsed, a charred lump.

  Varg looked up at this intrusion.

  “Kill him,” rasped the Demon-Prince, and motioned to two towering, four-armed guardians at his side.

  Razgoth fired a blast of blue-white electricity at the nearest creature. It shriveled before the sizzling bolt and fell dead at the wizard’s feet. Without pausing, Razgoth unleashed another bolt that forked and slammed into the pair of assassins moving toward him.

  To Razgoth’s surprise, the two beasts fought frantically with their four hideous arms to deflect the bolt. Most of the magic dissipated without visible effect. Immediately Razgoth fired another bolt.

  Before he had time to gauge the effect of his second blast, a heavy blow landed on the base of his skull. The room spun. His knees buckled and he fell. Desperately Razgoth fought to remain conscious. By sheer will power, he managed to ward off the growing curtain of blackness.