BlackThorn's Doom (12 page)

Casius tightened his grip upon blackthorns pommel and followed Connell.

The door opened into a circular chamber that filled the base of the tower. Two hundred feet across with a high domed ceiling sixty feet above their heads. It was Spartan in design, no furniture or decorations of any kind. The floor was mirror smooth and as black as the walls outside. The only light came from the ceiling, a sickly green glow that seemed to pulsate as if the very tower was alive.

Suni stopped and pointed to the center of the chamber.

A black opening yawned in the reflective floor, a deep pit twenty feet across. In the gloom it would have been easily missed by any one of them. On the far side of the opening a slender stair wound upward disappearing in a hole in the domed ceiling.

Moving cautiously they circled around the pit. Casius crept close to the edge and peered into the darkness below. He could only see a few feet down the smooth walled shaft. But the darkness gave him a sense of great depth. From the depths he could hear a faint sighing sound and a rancid smelling breeze wafted upward forcing him back.

After a few moments of standing and listening for the slightest sound of movement from above they began to ascend the narrow spiral stair.

Upward the stair rose, passing through dimly lit chambers filled with strange constructions of metal and glass. At times Marcos would stop and stare at them and shake his head sadly before continuing on.

Chapter Ten

For six days the force of Taur Di drove their mounts hard. They had left the Randorian forest two days past, heading due north across a range of steep hills that formed the southern extent of the Rahlcrag Mountains.

Skirting the edge of the Gaul-Tyrian wastes they traveled along the western flank of arid foothills turning slightly northeast.

A great sea of dunes ran westward, harsh winds blew grit into their eyes and clothing. Burcott’s men followed the Taur Di’s example and wore scarves across their faces to keep out the worst of the dust.

On the morning of the tenth day, five men walked out of the desert and stood in the Taur Di’s path.

They were dressed in flowing robes the color of sand, with long swaths of cloth wrapped about their necks and heads leaving only a thin slit for their eye’s. Across their backs hung scabbards holding long swords with broad curving blades.

One of the men unwrapped his headdress exposing a face deeply tan and weathered from exposure to the sun and desert winds. His dark eyes glittered brightly, watching the approaching army with feigned indifference.

The column angled to the side and passed the men. Jehnom reigned in his mount and slid from the deer’s back. With a wave he called for Burcott to join him.

“Justice.” Jehnom said coldly. “We go to avenge our dead upon the Morne. They have defiled our homes and set fire to the trees of the forest. This crime my people shall not allow to go unpunished.”

The nomad’s eyes narrowed and a hint of anger laced his voice. “The Lizard men have earned our wrath as well. Even now my people mourn the loss of many at their hand. They fell upon us at night, trolls at their side. Destroying much in their passage southward.”

“If they are the same as those who attacked my home, then they are dead.” Jehnom said. “There is a great host of them gathered in the north. It is to them we shall carry the fight.”

“And the outlander?” The nomad asked with a nod to Burcott.

“Lord Burcott of Trondhiem.” Jehnom replied. “He and his men have earned the gratitude of the Taur Di. By their actions they have saved the lives of hundreds of my people. We have offered them a place of honor among us.”

The nomad nodded in understanding. “Continue your course and stray not into the wastes. I will carry your words to the Sahri Kahlamm. By his leave you will be allowed to continue.”

Jehnom’s back straightened in indignation. “The wastes are your lands sand walker, but these hills are free lands and we will pass.”

“Since the Morne attack the Sahri has claimed all the land to the Mountains.” The nomad responded. “From the black waters of the south to the sands end in the north, from these lowly peaks to the great heights far to the west. These lands are now the Sahri’s to rule.”

With a nod to his companions he turned and sprinted up the nearest dune face and disappeared over its crest, His companions following after.

Jehnom watched them depart, his brow furrowed in consternation.

“Pleasant fellow.” Burcott quipped.

“His people have always been suspicious of others.” Jehnom snapped his fingers calling his mount to him. “With the attack upon his kith it is a wonder that we have been allowed to travel so far.”

Burcott looked to the long line of Taur Di riding away. The two columns of mounted men left a trail of billowing dust over a mile long in their wake. “They now know our numbers Jehnom, we may meet resistance yet.”

Jehnom mounted and looked to the waste. “It would go badly if we did.” He said spurring his stag forward at a trot.

Burcott swung up into his saddle and wiped the sweat from his brow. His eyes searched the barren wastes to the west. “Then let us hope this Sahri of theirs is reasonable.” He muttered to himself spurring his horse after Jehnom.

Chapter Eleven

Gaelan stood upon the wreckage of the towers roof. In his hand he held the great bow of King Wolhan, try as he might he could not draw it back. He doubted there was a single man within the keep capable of doing so. Yet the late king had done so almost effortlessly.

He thought of trying once more but gave up the idea immediately. He handed the bow to one of his messengers.

“Place this in the king’s chambers.” He said. “Lock the door and set a guard. No one is to enter those rooms without my leave.”

The young man took the bow and held it as if it would break. He bowed his head and stepped carefully across the rubble heading for the stair leading into the towers depths.

Gaelan strode away from the ruined edge and leaned against the unbroken stonework of the eastern parapet. He looked out across the great arc of the wall. His men were exhausted and more than half now bore wounds. He knew it was only a matter of time until the great fortress was taken.

With every sunset the Morne would attack, dying in great numbers before the walls. Through it all, the black armored figure stood silent vigil. Remaining beyond bowshot the warrior directed his attacking army with ruthless abandon. He cared not for their lives; his only goal was the destruction of Timosh.

From his vantage point he could see Prince Jerudan directing the keeps defenders. Further along the wall, where the stone met with the wall of the comb he could see the golden flash of D’Yana’s hair.

He had been concerned about her decision to stay initially. But he was glad she had, D’Yana was a valiant warrior who had fought bravely at his side. He could not ask for a better companion in battle. A demon with those short swords, many a Morne now lay dead having believed her to be an easy mark.

Shouts of outrage drew his attention back to the field of battle. A large pole had been sunk into the stony earth, and the Morne were tying the body of King Wolhan to the post. He hung upside down; his lifeless eyes staring up at the men on the walls.

The Morne drew their swords and slapped his chest with the flats of their blades. Calling out challenges to the keeps defenders in their obscene tongue.

Standing nearby the armored warrior watched all with pleasure.

Night fell and wave after wave of the Morne crashed into the keep. A sea of dead lay piled against the walls, and yet they came. Driven by anger, and fear of their god they threw their lives away in their quest to kill the men. The ground became a mire of half frozen mud and thick pools of spilt blood.

At midnight, horns sounded in the distance and the Morne retreated back to their campsite.

Gaelan sat upon a water keg and watched as the wounded and dead were cleared from the wall. Too many he thought angrily, we cannot hope to last much longer.

A work party emerged from within the tower, each of the men bearing several of the spear-sized shafts for the ballista’s mounted along the parapet. Only six of the eight remained functional and the shafts were in short supply.

Gaelan looked to the black armored fiend upon the field. Two nights ago they had tried to kill him with a shot from the giant crossbow, but it had failed. The bolt had burst into flames the moment it touched him. Three more shots were taken but they could not pierce his armor.

It was well after midnight when he returned to his quarters. He washed the grime from his face and hands and fell onto his cot, too tired to even remove his boots before falling fast asleep.

No attack came the next night; it appeared that even the Morne were exhausted from the constant fighting.

In the early hours of the morning the ground shook and a deep rumble came from the west. The sky turning a fiery orange upon the western horizon, and with the coming of daylight a dark smudge stained the sky.

Snow fell late in the day, the temperature dropping well below freezing. Even with the cold the smell of the dead tainted the air.

Prince Jerudan wrapped his cloak tightly about him as stepped out of the tower and out onto the southern arc of the wall. There he found King Gaelan moving among his men. He greeted each of them in passing, exchanging words of encouragement and praise.

“We have a problem,” He told Gaelan when they met.

“You’ve noticed the army at our gate as well?” Gaelan asked with a grin.

Jerudan could see that the new king was far from jovial and was merely putting on a front for the men. “It is the dead.” He said changing the subject, indicating the piles of slain Morne with a tilt of his head.

Gaelan looked down upon the carnage. “They do not appear to be threatening us in any way.”

“I speak of disease.” Jerudan coughed, he had acquired a cold a few days past and was still suffering from it. “Even with this cold the dead will bring disease upon this keep, it may even taint the wells beneath the walls.”

Gaelan looked once more upon the bodies. Hundreds of large crows were busily tearing at the flesh of the dead with their dark beaks. “They’re too many to bury, and I doubt the Morne would allow us to walk out and do so.”

“Burn them.” Prince Jerudan responded. “We have oil enough to do so. Pour it along the walls where the bodies lie thickest. The flames will spread given time.”

Gaelan nodded. “Make it so.” He said approving of the Princes plan.

An hour later the last kegs of lamp oil were poured over the wall onto the bodies of the slain. Torches were thrown after and flames reached high into the sky as thick oily smoke stained the walls. The smell of burning flesh forced the men upon the wall to cover their mouths and noses.

The Morne stirred at their encampment and formed a large line chanting solemnly as their brethren were cremated.

“Have the men stand down,” Gaelan told his captains. “No attack will come while the fire burns.” Turning his eyes to the cloud laden sky beyond the combs overhang. “Fifteen days until the new year, Jerudan.” He said looking back at the sick Prince. “I wonder whose standard will fly above these stones?”

“Will it matter to the dead?” Jerudan asked before coughing.

Gaelan leads the ill Prince back into the relative warmth of the tower. On the roof of the tower D’Yana stands looking through the billowing smoke to the west, her eyes moist with tears. Below her on the field hangs the beaten body of a great man, the father of the man she has come to love.

Chapter Twelve

Up the smooth stairs they ascended. The tower was deathly still, the sounds of their boots scuffing upon the stone echoing loudly in their ears.

Casius’s heart pounded, he knew they were nearing the top of the tower. With their goal only a few flights above their heads, he was beginning to have doubts. How was he going to find the strength within himself to slay an immortal.

Their ascent slowed as they could see the stair ending in a room above them. Casius dropped his hand to the sword’s pommel and all sense of fear fled him. The blade was warm filling him with the confidence he was lacking.

After a brief pause Suni led the way into the chamber above. He moved silently, a shadow in the pulsating green light that filled the room.

They entered slowly; the chamber was circular in shape with the stair at its very center. Twenty feet above their heads the ceiling was a dome of crystal. Suspended beneath its apex a shimmering globe of green light spun slowly. Along the walls narrow columns rose from the floor ending in points only a few feet from the ceiling. Resembling the ribs of some great beast their ends crackling with green fire. Between two of the columns there stood a low dais upon which rested a throne of dark crystal.